


If I Could Start Again (A Million Miles Away)

by roaroftheninth



Series: The Prison AU [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Crimes & Criminals, Gen, M/M, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roaroftheninth/pseuds/roaroftheninth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After nearly a year on the lam, Louis is suddenly missing and Harry has limited options. After all, when the missing person in question is a wanted felon, you can't exactly call the police. Featuring Detective Payne, his long-suffering prosecutor husband Zayn Malik, and a certain always-charming two-bit Irish crime boss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Love Will Knock You Down

**Author's Note:**

> I'm forever sorry about the exceptionally long wait for this. I will be posting one chapter per week or so, although hopefully more often than that. The story is about halfway written now, so we should be good to go. As always, I know very little about how the prison/legal system actually works, so if there are inaccuracies, hopefully you'll give me a tiny amount of poetic license.
> 
> I also want to thank everyone who read and commented on the first story, whether on Tumblr at almost-a-class-act or on AO3. You're the reason why the sequel exists. 
> 
> You don't absolutely need to have read [Always Be a Good Boy (Don't Ever Play With Guns)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/774299/chapters/1454502) to read this story, but it will definitely make it easier on you.
> 
> The title of this fic is also from a Johnny Cash song; 'Hurt', this time.

“Get it. _Get it._ ”

 

At the sound of Liam’s exclamation, Zayn looks up from the layer of paperwork spread over his knees, black-framed glasses perched on his nose. He’s leaned against the armrest of the couch, going over paperwork; Liam sits one sofa cushion over, leaning forward, and intent on the television with his elbows braced on his knees.

 

“Come on, are you serious – ? Just _carry_ the bloody ball.” Liam presses his face into his hands momentarily, before he drags them down over his jaw and fixates on the screen again.

 

“Is West Brom winning?” Zayn asks, because whatever West Brom is, Liam has a tendency react well to it.

 

Liam reaches over and squeezes his knee, accidentally knocking some of Zayn’s papers to the floor. He doesn’t even look away from the screen. “It’s sweet of you to pretend like you care, babe, but you don’t have to.”

 

Zayn twists sideways to retrieve his fallen papers. “Things seemed to be getting a bit dire, based on your reaction. I’m just trying to be supportive.”

 

Liam hums in response, clearly no longer paying attention.

 

Zayn’s gone back to his paperwork a few minutes later when Liam half-surges off the couch, making Zayn jump and drop his pen.

 

“Do you have two left legs?!” Liam demands of the tiny football players jogging across the television screen.

 

“Babe,” Zayn says, pleasantly enough.

 

Liam doesn’t react, totally focused on what’s playing out on the field.

 

“Liam,” Zayn says, slightly more forcefully.

 

“In a sec,” Liam mumbles, with the universal dismissive _can’t you talk during the commercial_ hand wave.

 

“I’m about to get naked,” Zayn says, conversationally.

 

Liam’s head snaps around at once. “What?”

 

Zayn adjusts his glasses. Liam’s so _easy._ “Now that I have your attention, can you try and enjoy the game, like,  _slightly_ more quietly?”

 

“Oh.” Liam reddens slightly. “Yeah.”

 

“Thanks, love.”

 

Liam turns back to the television and, true to his word, he’s silent for nearly a minute.

 

Then: “I mean. If you wanted to actually get naked – ”

 

“That was never actually on the table,” Zayn points out, amused. “I have a lot of work to do.”

 

“Yeah, but.” Liam turns fully to face Zayn properly, pulling his knees up onto the couch so he can crawl toward Zayn. “What if you did your office work, dunno, _at_ the office?”

 

“ _Liam_.” Zayn tries to steal his papers back as Liam begins collecting them up off of his knees, stacking them neatly and setting them aside on the coffee table. “Li, give those – all right, those ones I actually need – ”

 

Zayn pushes himself away from the armrest to reach for the papers that Liam obligingly moves just out of reach.

 

“Liam,” he says, trying to sound stern and not the least bit amused. “Give those back.”

 

“Of course,” Liam says. “Come and get them.” He sits back on his heels and gives Zayn an infuriating, big-puppy-dog grin.

 

“If I can get them from you, will you let me work?” Zayn asks.

 

“Cross my heart,” Liam says seriously.

 

Zayn looks from him to the papers clenched in his fist, calculating, and then lunges forward. Unfortunately, Liam is surprisingly fast for his size, and he gets both arms around Zayn before the latter can do much more than squeak in outrage.

 

“Caught you,” Liam says cheerfully. “Don’t think we decided on what would happen if you _couldn’t_ get the papers from me.”

 

Zayn makes a half-hearted attempt to push him away. “Liam,” he mumbles, into Liam’s shoulder. “You know the bit where I said I had to work – ?”

 

Liam shifts, and before Zayn knows it, he’s on his back (gentle; Liam has the size and build to forget his own strength if he’s not careful, but he never does with his husband). Liam still has an arm curved around his shoulders; the other is next to Zayn’s face, planted for balance.

 

Something in Liam’s eyes flashes wicked and bright when he leans down to mouth a kiss into Zayn’s throat. “If you want me to go away for real, I will,” he murmurs against Zayn’s skin. Zayn’s head falls back almost involuntarily as Liam nuzzles at the dip of his neck.

 

“You’re such a tease,” Zayn accuses.

 

“You’re the one who promised nudity just to get my attention,” Liam points out.

 

Zayn curls a hand over the back of Liam’s neck, tugging him closer; Liam obligingly leans down on his forearm, lifting his hand from where it’s braced with Zayn’s papers tucked firmly between it and the couch.

 

Zayn moves suddenly; there’s a crinkle of paper, and then he’s pushing at Liam’s shoulder. Liam sits back, his brow knitting, as Zayn triumphantly holds up the papers he stole back.

 

“I can’t believe I just let that happen,” Liam says. He doesn’t sound upset, though, mostly good-natured and a tiny bit irritated with himself for losing his opportunity at a perfectly good makeout-like-teenagers session with his husband of four years.

 

“I can’t believe it, either,” Zayn says. He presses his fingers into Liam’s jaw, giving his face an affectionate push. “You’re losing your touch, Detective Payne.”

 

“Next time,” Liam warns.

 

Zayn grins at him.

 

\--

 

Harry doesn’t like the smell of the Underground. It reminds him of dank, musty places where the daytime never gets in and sunshine is doled out like a privilege instead of a right. He’s off the train in a heartbeat when it stops, weaving his way through the throngs of people going to work and taking the stairs to the street level two at a time. The fresh air makes him feel like he was holding his breath until now, and he lets it out, slowly, and checks his phone. There’s no reception underground; if a message was sent then, he wouldn’t get it until he came back up onto the street.

 

_No new messages. No missed calls._

 

Harry can’t help the tiniest swoop of disappointment, even though he told himself he’d stop doing that.

 

There’s a coffee shop on the corner two blocks down, and Harry stops inside to get a cup of hot water. His phone stays tightly clenched in his hand, where it’s been constantly since he came home to his empty flat two days ago. He’s left half a dozen messages for Louis and sent three times as many texts, but they’ve all gone unanswered so far. He doesn’t give up, though, and checks the screen constantly.

 

_No new messages. No missed calls._

 

 It’s as he’s paying for his tea-that-isn’t (“Eighty pence,” says the barista, looking thoroughly unimpressed by Harry’s beverage of choice) that a young woman pipes up behind him: “Pardon me, but you look _so_ familiar. Have we met?”

 

Harry takes his hot water from the barista so fast that he splashes scalding water over his fingers, flinching. “No, I don’t think so,” he says, turning away.

 

“Are you sure? I’d _swear_ …”

 

“I don’t know you,” Harry says quickly, ducking his head a little so that his curls fall across his face. (He needs a haircut.) (Louis was going to do it this Sunday.) “I’ve got – got to go.”

 

Harry leaves the shop so quickly that he bumps into someone rather hard and spills more scalding water on himself, apologizing to the stranger without lifting his head to make eye contact. By the time he gets outside, he’s clutching a half-empty cup, fingers throbbing miserably, and he wants nothing more than to duck away from the world and be nobody again. But his heart is racing too quickly, and, after a hurried glance back at the coffee shop to check that no one’s been curious enough to follow, he hastens away down the street.

 

When he progresses from well-kept sidewalks between tall buildings to neighbourhoods where people actually live, in cracked tenements that loom over the asphalt, Harry starts to recognize things. He doesn’t know it well, but he’s seen it before, passing quickly through on his way to somewhere else. His footsteps pick up a little when he gets closer to his destination, until he’s jogging and then running. Rounding the corner, he doesn’t lose speed, opting instead to widen his turn into the roadway before veering back onto the sidewalk.

 

The building that was Harry’s halfway house to freedom when he and Louis were first on the lam doesn’t look any different than it did the last time Harry saw it. The windows they watched the world from are third and fourth from the end on the top floor; they vacantly reflect the sky now, in a way that makes Harry feel distantly cold.

 

When he approaches the house, he’s not sure what he expects. Niall Horan is a mate of his – a mate to whom Harry owes his freedom, in a major way – but he’s also an Irish crime boss, and that means that people don’t generally cruise up to his office and knock on the front door. Harry doesn’t have much of a choice, though; he needs Niall’s help, and it’s not like he has a listed phone number.

 

Going around the corner of the house to the side door, which is the only entrance that got much use the last time Harry was here, he knocks on the door and stuffs his hands into his pockets, faux-casual. It’s the biggest lie he’s lived in some time, when his shoulders are wound tighter than a violin.

 

There’s a long pause after Harry knocks on the door. Then, just as he raises his hand for a second time, the door swings open a crack. Harry expects – someone familiar. Perrie, maybe, because she was around a lot, orchestrating deliveries over the phone, and willing to answer the door with a gun in her hand and too much lavender hair and multicoloured eye shadow for anyone to ever suspect it.

 

But it’s not Perrie; it’s an older woman that Harry doesn’t recognize, and she has her arms folded over her chest defensively. She’s not armed, Harry notes at once.

 

“We don’t want any,” she says.

 

“I’m not selling anything,” Harry says. “I’m looking for, um.” He doesn’t want to say Niall’s name. “Perrie.”

 

The woman narrows her eyes at him. “That operation that was in here before? What are you looking for them for? Who are you?”

 

“I’m – Harry,” Harry says, not that that’s particularly helpful, but –

 

“Well, I don’t know you, Harry, and you’ll not find any drugs here.”

 

“No, no, I’m – it’s not like that, I’m not here for drugs or anything, I just wanted to talk to – to talk to someone,” Harry says, a little desperately. “Do you have any idea where they might have gone?”

 

“To fuck up someone else’s neighbourhood, I expect,” the woman snaps. “And that’s all I know. Now piss off.”

 

“Sorry,” Harry says hastily. “Sorry.”

 

He takes a step back, numbly, standing frozen for a long moment after the door is closed in his face. The interaction, while unpleasant, wasn't the worst part. Rather, he's quickly running out of options for finding Louis, and he hadn't realized how much hope he had placed in finding Niall. It's stupid, he thinks, to expect people to be where you left them, especially when those people make a living of not being found. It's stupid, but it's still so, so disappointing that it feels like a physical illness.

 

After a moment, Harry jerks himself into motion and automatically follows his own path back to the street. He moves like he's in a hurry, but not because he has anywhere to go. He stands on the sidewalk for a moment, letting strangers flow around him like a river around an island, but not as smooth.

 

Then he takes off toward the underground again.

 

-

 

When Liam wakes up in the night, he’s not immediately sure what woke him. It’s as though he was asleep and then suddenly, without any groggy in-between, he was totally conscious. The clock on his night table reads 3:48 am; he can feel Zayn’s slow, even breathing on the back of his neck, his arm slung loosely over Liam’s hip and his fingers curled gently against Liam’s stomach. Whatever woke Liam hasn’t interrupted Zayn’s rest at all.

 

He closes his eyes and focuses on that, on the peacefulness of a dark home that’s been quiet for a long time, on the rhythm of Zayn’s breathing, and soon enough he’s on the verge of drifting off again.

 

There’s a creak from downstairs that takes Liam’s heart rate from zero to sixty in half a second.

 

He must stiffen, because Zayn stirs behind him and mumbles, “Y’all right?” His words are slurred with sleep; it’s the kind of conversation that, if Zayn’s allowed to doze back off, he won’t remember in the morning.

 

Liam is already extricating himself from the blankets, climbing soundlessly out of bed.

 

“Liam?” Zayn says, brow furrowing slightly at the sudden lack of warmth and weight on the bed.

 

“Hush, babe,” Liam breathes, ears strained for any other sound. “I think there’s someone downstairs.”

 

Zayn is awake at once at that, but he obeys Liam’s instructions and doesn’t make any noise as he slowly sits up. “Why do you think there’s someone downstairs?” he murmurs.

 

“The place where the floor is buckled between the living room and the kitchen,” Liam whispers back, and Zayn understands without him having to say any more, because that part of the floor has creaked since they bought the house and it’s a very identifiable sound.

 

Zayn starts to climb out of bed, but Liam puts a palm flat on his chest and stops him. There’s a very, very faint sound from downstairs, but it seems to echo through the stillness of the deafeningly quiet house.

 

“Liam,” Zayn hisses.

 

Liam ignores him, reaching into the drawer next to the bed where he keeps his gun at night. Zayn’s eyes widen.

 

“What are you going to do with that?”

 

“Hopefully nothing,” Liam says grimly, sliding out the magazine so he can check that it’s loaded. He reaches for Zayn’s phone on the night stand and presses it into his hand.

 

“I’m going to go down and do a sweep,” Liam whispers. “If I don’t come back in five minutes to give you the all-clear, you hide in the closet in the bathroom and call the police.”

 

“Liam, Jesus – ”

 

“Listen to me.” Liam sits down very briefly next to him on the bed and cups a hand over the back of Zayn’s neck, protective. Zayn reaches up instinctively to curl his fingers over Liam’s wrist. “I’m a detective and you’re a prosecutor. We make dangerous enemies, you know that. There’s a reason why we have an unlisted address.”

 

“Liam – ”

 

But Liam overrides him. “You know as well as I do that it could be nothing downstairs. But it could also be the drug smuggler I arrested two years ago or some friends of the gang-related double homicide you helped put away last month.”

 

 “Don’t be a fucking hero,” Zayn warns.

 

“You either,” Liam answers seriously. “I meant what I said. Five minutes, and then you call the cops and stay hidden until they get here. Sirens are not close enough; you don’t make a sound until a cop comes through that bedroom door.”

 

Zayn nods, a little shaky, but he’s under control. He knows he has to reassure Liam that he’ll stay safe, or Liam will be distracted; if Liam’s distracted, he’s more likely to make mistakes.

 

“Five minutes,” Zayn repeats.

 

Liam nods, rising from the bed, and a moment later he’s vanished into the dark hallway.

 

Zayn presses his knuckles against his mouth, feeling his wedding band bite gently into his lip. His other hand is curled around the phone in his lap, and he sets a mental timer.  _It’s 3:50 am._

 

He ignores the awful turnover in his belly when his mind supplies:  _If he isn’t back by 3:55, he’s not coming._

 

The minutes pass interminably slowly. Zayn strains his ears, but the house is quiet once more, and every time he thinks it must have been eons since Liam was gone, he looks down and discovers that only thirty or forty seconds have gone by.

 

His anxiety mounts as the time crawls closer and closer to 3:55. He can’t hear _anything_ downstairs, Liam or otherwise, and he feels extremely vulnerable just sitting on the bed with the door to the hallway slightly ajar the way Liam left it, presumably so as not to make a sound by closing it. By the time the tiny numbers on his phone flick over to 3:55, Zayn is so anxious he knows he’s going to feel the remnants of it tomorrow, the scream of muscles locked too tight.

 

As another minute passes – 3:56, it’s getting late – Zayn climbs off the bed and crosses the room soundlessly to the bathroom. He closes the door ever so quietly behind him, sits down with his back against the tub, and hits the number four on speed dial.

 

The phone rings multiple times before going to voice mail. Zayn hangs up and tries again; if the phone is ringing, it’s not off.

 

On the fourth ring of the third call – Zayn can hear his blood in his ears so loudly that it sounds like the house is alive around him; it’s 3:58 and he’s losing _time_ – the sound of someone picking up makes warm relief curl up in his belly.

 

“S’this?” The voice is raspy and the words slurred together; nevertheless, Zayn has never been so glad to have someone pick up the phone in his life.

 

“It’s Zayn,” he says, keeping his voice low. “It’s really, really urgent.”

 

There’s the sound of rustling as Eleanor presumably sits up, more awake now. “Zayn? What’s wrong?” To her credit, she doesn’t ask a hundred stupid questions or jump to conclusions; she’s too good of a cop for that.

 

Zayn quickly explains the situation, pausing every now and again to see if he can hear anything. When he reaches the end of his explanation, he can hear Eleanor properly moving on the other end.

 

“Where are you right now?” she asks.

 

“I’m in the bathroom,” Zayn replies.

 

“Are you in the closet he told you to hide in?”

 

“No, I’m – ” but Zayn doesn’t get a chance to finish before Eleanor cuts him off.

 

“Get in there right now.”

 

“El, I’m not a kid,” Zayn says, frustration and anxiety threading through his voice.

 

“You’re not a police officer, either, and you’re not armed, so do exactly what he told you to do,” Eleanor says, leaving no room for argument. “Are you listening to me?”

 

“What are you going to do?” Zayn asks.

 

“I’m coming,” she promises. “I can get there faster than the cavalry, but I promise they’ll be right behind me. Sit tight, Z.”

 

The moment he’s off the phone, Zayn shoves it into his pocket and stands up. It’s 4 am now, and he’s absolutely done waiting, no matter what Liam or Eleanor say.

 

Easing open the door to the bathroom, he scans the dark bedroom, but it looks exactly as it did when he left it a few minutes before. He’s just about to cross to the hallway door when he hears voices down below, and freezes.

 

Some tension releases from his back, just the tiniest amount. There’s something about people speaking that’s a thousand times more reassuring than silence.

 

Zayn lets himself out of the bedroom and takes careful, quiet steps to the staircase. If he sits down on the third step from the top, he can see through the bannister and into the living room, so that’s what he does, settling his weight so, so cautiously.

 

One of the voices is definitely Liam’s, which made Zayn’s heart crawl down out of his throat a little when he first heard it. The other voice sounds vaguely familiar, but Zayn can’t place it. They’re in the kitchen, so he can’t quite hear what they’re saying, but they don’t sound they’re arguing.

 

A moment later, a sliver of light appears around the kitchen door and widens as someone comes through it. Zayn freezes in place as the lights in the living room go on. It’s when the person rounds the couch and comes to the bottom of the staircase that Zayn’s shoulders relax.

 

Liam seems to either sense Zayn or catch a glimpse of him in his periphery, because he glances up suddenly and starts to raise his gun – lowering it when he realizes who the dark figure on the stairs is.

 

“Zayn,” Liam says, and his voice might be as full of relief as Zayn feels. “I was just coming up to get you.” Something hardens in his face, and it surprises Zayn a little, because he doesn’t often see that side of Liam (the one he takes to work with him and tends to leave at the door when he comes home). “Didn’t I tell you to hide?”

 

“Yeah,” Zayn says. “You did, but I – ” How does he explain what that would've been like? 

 

“This is not a game,” Liam says, very patiently but very firmly, as though Zayn needs to have this explicitly explained to him in a way he can’t misunderstand. Starting up the stairs, Liam stops when he reaches Zayn and reaches out a hand to help him up. “If I were an intruder right now, you would be in a lot of trouble.”

 

“Yeah, but you aren’t,” Zayn points out defensively.

 

“Did you know that when I came into the living room?” Liam asks.

 

Zayn didn’t.

 

He knows that Liam already knows the answer to that question, so he doesn't answering it, folding his arms and refusing to give up the high ground. “I called the police,” he says. “But I absolutely couldn’t crouch down in a tiny hiding place in our en-suite and wait for them to come while something might’ve happened to you.”

 

“I appreciate that, love,” Liam says, and usually he lets Zayn have his way before things can escalate, but not this time. Liam is immoveable on Zayn’s safety and always has been. “But in the future, I need you to do what I tell you to do in situations where I know best. All right?”

 

Zayn’s the one to break eye contact first. He looks away and licks his lips. “All right,” he replies. “All right, I’m sorry. I was worried; I was, like, imagining all kinds of things.”

 

Liam leans in to kiss Zayn’s forehead, trying to smooth away some of the furrows there. “I know, babe. I knew you’d be stubborn, too, when I asked you.”

 

Zayn gives him a little punch in the arm for that. _Stubborn._ Like Liam isn’t a mule over the most ridiculous things.

 

“Speaking of all of this,” Zayn says, as it comes back to him: “ _Who_ were you talking to in the kitchen?”

 

“Ah.” Liam turns and starts leading the way downstairs, Zayn following in his wake. “So we did have an intruder, but as it turns out, he’s not here to rob us.”

 

The intruder, as it turns out, is Harry Styles. Zayn recognizes him less from the ubiquitous ‘wanted’ posters, oddly, and more from the time when Zayn tracked him and Louis Tomlinson back to where they were staying and Harry watched, silent, from the couch, as Zayn told them to leave town and not to come back.

 

Harry’s eyes are red-rimmed when he nods tightly at Zayn. He's sitting at their kitchen table, looking too young to be the kind of man Zayn knows he is. “Hi. Sorry for, um. For scaring you.”

 

“How did you get in?” Zayn asks.

 

“The basement window,” Harry answers. “I broke it. ‘m sorry.”

 

“The basement window is…” Zayn glances at Liam; they had never considered that the basement window might be a security threat. It’s so impossibly small that they had just assumed that no one could fit through it. Additionally, they always lock the basement door.

 

“Yeah, it was a squeeze,” Harry admits. “And I had to pick the lock at the top of the stairs.”

 

“Something you learned from Louis, no doubt,” Liam remarks mildly, pulling out a chair and indicating that Zayn should sit. After a moment’s hesitation, he does. Harry watches them, eyes fixed not on their faces but on the way Zayn ghosts gentle fingers over Liam’s side, an almost automatic _thank you._

 

“How long have you two been married?” he asks.

 

“Four years,” Liam replies when Zayn says nothing.

 

“S’nice,” Harry says.

 

“Well, we have our days,” Liam answers, brisk but courteous. He flashes a smile at Zayn, who doesn’t return it.

 

“What are you doing here?” Zayn asks, eyes fixed on Harry. “I told you to go.”

 

“We did,” Harry says. “We left and we got a flat somewhere else and for a while things were – all right. And then I came home three days ago and Louis was gone.”

 

“What does that mean?” Liam asks carefully. “Gone?”

 

“He’s missing,” Harry says. He rubs a hand over one of his eyes; it makes it look more swollen, like he’s been crying recently.

 

“Wait, wait.” Liam still sounds careful, but patient. “Start at the beginning. What’ve you two been up to since you’ve been gone?”

 

“Um.” Harry looks down at the table, and there’s a twitch in his shoulders as he steels himself. “I’ve been working. Lou can’t really work, he’s still really, really recognizable because of the – the scar. So he’s been doing some – some other types of work, yeah? On the side.”

 

Liam and Zayn exchange glances. Harry doesn’t see it, eyes fixed on the table.

 

“I told him not to,” Harry continues. “But he felt bad that I was working and he couldn’t.”

 

“And Lou never saw a scam he could resist,” Liam adds.

 

Harry does look up at that, glancing back and forth between them. “I – okay. All right, yeah. He was breaking the law.”

 

“So you came to a cop and a lawyer for help,” Zayn says.

 

“No,” Harry replies. “I, um. I went looking for Niall first. Niall Horan, he – ”

 

“We know who Niall Horan is,” Zayn interrupts.

 

“Well, I went back to where he used to live, last year, but he was gone.” Harry looks slightly haunted. “And Lou still wasn’t picking up his texts or answering calls and I didn’t know what else to do.”

 

“You know that if someone knew you were here and we didn’t report you - if Liam didn't _arrest_ you - we would both likely lose our jobs,” Zayn says.

 

“S’why I came at night,” Harry says. “I just wanted – if you could help even a bit…”

 

“Then we’d seriously be putting our careers on the line,” Zayn points out.

 

“Hey,” Liam interjects, smoothing a hand across Zayn’s shoulder blades. “Let’s hear what he has to say, love. We don’t have to help him but we can hear him out.”

 

Zayn falls silent at that, although the way he watches Harry suggests he’s not at a loss for things to say. After a moment, he says, “I’m going to go and call Eleanor, tell her to call off the cavalry.”

 

“You did call, then,” Liam says, sounding surprised and a little relieved.

 

“Of course I called.” Zayn doesn’t roll his eyes, but there’s the quiet sound of it in his voice. “You asked me to.”

  
  
Liam watches him out of the room, faintly puzzled, but quickly turns his attention back to Harry when the latter scrapes at a tiny flaw in the wooden tabletop with one fingernail, clearly anxious.

 

“I just, um.” Harry folds his hands together on the table in front of him, as though this is hard to say. “I’m worried that something’s happened and I obviously can’t just call the police. I don’t have a lot of people I can ask for help. I know you don’t owe me anything, but I thought – even if you could just keep an ear to the ground? That would be massively helpful.”

 

Liam nods. “Well, it’s a bit – you know, in the world he put himself in, the unfortunate consequence is that there are a lot of shady people with bad motives. It’s not nice, but it is what it is.”

 

“Louis has a tattoo that says that,” Harry remarks quietly.

 

“Yeah,” Liam replies steadily. “I know. I knew him before you did, yeah? That’s why I’ll see what I can do." There's a beat. "But you can’t stick around here, mate.”

 

“I know,” Harry says at once. “I would never – you’re already doing more than I ought to ask from a perfect stranger, I wouldn’t ask you if I could stay with you as well. I have somewhere to go.”

 

Liam nods. “That’s good. Do you have a number, somewhere I can keep in touch if something comes up?”

 

Harry extends a hand. After a moment, Liam realizes that he’s waiting for his mobile device and hands it to him. Harry quickly programs in his number and gives it back. “Saved myself under Marcel,” he says, with a weak smile. “When Lou and I were coming up with names – aliases – that I could get a proper job under, he thought that one was hilarious for absolutely no reason.”

 

Harry Styles is a strange soul, Liam decides, observing him. He comes across as mild-mannered, maybe a little younger than he is, probably not meant to be out alone in the world, and yet. And yet he’s not twenty-five and he’s held a gun in his hands and ended someone’s life, escaped from prison with a fellow convict and set up a life under the radar of the law, and now he’s back in the city where the manhunt started, in the home of one of the detectives on the case, asking for help.

 

Because he’s got nowhere else to go, and Harry simply seems to trust. Or maybe he needs Louis back too much not to.

 

“Let me show you out,” Liam offers.

 

“Nah, I can show myself out,” Harry replies. “Sorry again about your window. You ought to consider putting a bar across it.”

 

“Really,” Liam says firmly. “Let me show you out. You can take the back door, cut across the neighbour’s yard, and you’ll be in the park. From there it’s three minutes to the bus stop.”

 

Harry accepts that, and nods. “Thanks for your help.”

 

“Thanks for telling me he was missing,” Liam replies, and he means it.

 

Harry’s gone, vanished into the trees at the edge of the park, when Liam feels eyes on his back. He turns around to find Zayn leaning in the doorway to the living room, arms folded.

 

“So?”

 

Liam wants to ask what he means, but he also doesn't want to pick a fight.

 

“So I said I’d look into it,” he answers honestly.

 

Zayn cocks his head and then looks down at the kitchen tiles. “And, um. You didn’t, like, get the impression from me at all that I wasn’t keen on it?”

 

Liam’s brown furrows slightly. “Frankly I thought you were being a bit hard on him.”

 

Zayn looks up at once. “A bit hard on him? He’s a convicted criminal, sat here in our kitchen, asking us to put our careers on the line for him.”

 

“It’s not for him, though,” Liam says, trying to be patient. “It’s for Lou. He was my best mate. And I owe him.”

 

Zayn looks like he was not prepared for Liam to pull that particular card out this early in the game. It’s so strange; for Liam, the most irritating legacy of that incident with Niall Horan, a year ago now, is that he can't quite run a seven-minute mile anymore because of scar tissue in his lung. Zayn thinks about it more deeply than that; Liam's seen the pinched look on his face when Liam takes his shirt off at night and the puckering of scar tissue just south of his heart becomes visible.

 

“What if you get hurt?” Zayn asks, tight-lipped.

 

“It’s just turning over a few stones, babe, I promise,” Liam tells him, coming around the island in the middle of the kitchen, closing the distance between the two of them. He laces his fingers with Zayn’s and gives him a tug, gentle but firm; Zayn looks unwilling, but he lets himself be pulled forward. He doesn’t lift his arms or make any effort to return the way Liam’s arms fold around him, but he does press his nose into Liam’s neck.

 

“Nothing’s ever just turning over a few stones with you,” he mumbles, his voice slightly muffled.

 

“Sweetheart,” Liam says, and he’s very good at this, at absolute patience and reasonableness until Zayn wear himself out. “I know in this instance that putting myself in danger is putting you in danger as well. Your career is on the line as much as mine. So I won't take stupid risks, Z. I'll just ask around a bit. Totally harmless."

 

“I don’t want to watch you do this,” Zayn insists. “I don’t, I think it’s a stupid risk, Liam.”

 

“I know.” Liam prefers having real-talk conversations while wrapped up in each other as often as possible. It’s a safe space, as much as anything else. Zayn may have his serious eyes on, but when he speaks he’s so close that Liam can feel his breath against his neck. “I know, but he’s my childhood best mate, and something bad might’ve happened to him, and I think that someone at least ought to go looking. He deserves better than to just slip away forever. No matter what he’s done.”

 

Zayn feels like they’re both coming at this from different angles. “You don’t know what it was like, when you got hurt the last time.” His fingers creep up and curl over the collar of Liam’s shirt; they’re cool against Liam’s skin. “You have no idea, you were out cold, I sat there with El thinking about how the last time I’d seen you in uniform was the last police funeral we went to, and how I’d see you in it one more time because they’d want to bury you in it. And I didn’t even know if you’d bothered to get it cleaned, as if that was important. But I thought about it anyway.” His other arm moves, sliding around Liam’s waist, digging his fingers in and holding fast. “I won’t do it. I won’t do that again.”

 

"Sweetheart, when I was hurt last year, it happened while I was at work," Liam murmurs quietly into Zayn’s hair, letting Zayn hold on too tight. "And that could happen any day when I leave the house, because of the sort of job I do. Sometimes, yeah, it’s dangerous. But I'm a police officer anyway, because it's what I love. And I'm so, so sorry for putting you through that but it's a risk always, not just suddenly now."

 

Zayn knows he's right, but for some reason that only makes it worse. "I don't know how to, like… make you understand. To me it feels like you're risking your life and career for a stranger.”

 

"I won't get mixed up in anything illegal," Liam says soothingly. "Harry may be a stranger, but Louis isn't. We had each other's backs in a really rotten neighbourhood. I just want to pick up a few leads for Harry, that's all. I just want to be able to rest with a clear conscience, that I didn't hear that someone I was really close with is in trouble and didn’t do anything to help.”

 

Zayn presses his lips together. Liam feels the fight go out of him as physically as a breath exhaled. "If you get yourself shot again I'll get a divorce and I made an excellent prenup. You won't see a penny."

 

That startles a chuckle out of Liam, a quiet rumble that Zayn can feel in his chest. “Fair enough. Since I obviously married you for your money, I’ll be very put out.”

 

“Yeah, well, you’d better be, because I mean it.” Zayn tries to crane back enough to see Liam’s face. “I will sell this house right out from under you, Liam Payne.”

 

“Would I have to live with Eleanor?” Liam asks, looking mildly disturbed. Eleanor has a tendency to leave empty pizza boxes lying about and her version of tidying is spraying it with Febreze until it goes away.

 

“Yes,” Zayn says. “You would. Because you’ve got no other friends who would put up with your moping.”

 

“I’d be moping because we got a divorce, I gather,” Liam says.

 

“Best believe you’d be moping because we got a divorce,” Zayn replies.

 

“All right, all right.” Liam kisses him to erase that little frown. “I won’t get shot, then. But just for you.”

 

It’s a silly little joke, and they’ve both let it turn out that way. But later on, when they’ve gone back to bed, Zayn lays on his back in the dark and stares at the ceiling for a long time, unable to sleep. Next to him, Liam’s breathing is deep and even. Zayn finds the sound of it distracting, because every breath is a reminder that this isn’t a guarantee, and sooner or later, getting involved with Harry and Louis is going to come back to haunt them, the same way it absolutely did the last time. Zayn’s sure of it, he can feel it in his bones.

 

He falls asleep a long time later, with his arm around Liam’s ribs.

 

_Always breathe._


	2. If I Whispered Your Name, I Bet There'd Still Be a Spark

“So what was that all about last night?”

 

Eleanor holds open the door for Liam, letting him pass ahead and then hold open the second door for her.

 

“What was what all about?” Liam asks.

 

Eleanor rolls her eyes at him. “Of the many times you called me at four in the morning, I specifically meant the time when Zayn was concerned you’d been murdered by a burglar.”

 

“Oh.” Liam had forgotten that Zayn had called Eleanor, amid everything else. “It was just a false alarm,” he says dismissively. “Thought I heard something but we’d just left the basement window open by accident.”

 

“Zayn seemed pretty convinced that there was something wrong,” Eleanor replies, casting a scrutinizing glance over her shoulder as they walk toward the elevator. “He said you were gone for a long time.”

 

“Yeah, I was in the basement, trying to get the window to stay shut.” Liam is a bad liar; he knows that the longer they stay on this topic of conversation, the more suspicious she’ll get. “Zayn’s been sort of – more nervous than he used to be, after all of the stuff last year.”

 

Eleanor nods, although she doesn’t look entirely convinced. She opens her mouth to say something else, but the elevator doors ping open on their floor and they’re immediately met with the sight of everyone scurrying around.

 

“What’s going on?” Liam asks Danielle, a cop from Vice, as she flies by with a stack of files.

 

“They arrested John Rogers,” she calls back over her shoulder, already gone.

 

Liam and Eleanor look at each other. At the same time, they bolt toward the glassed-in meeting room at the far end of the precinct, knowing that any information that gets disseminated is going to come from there.

 

They’re not wrong. Police Chief Cowell himself sits on the edge of one of the tables, giving serious-faced instructions to a group of rookie cops. The more seasoned members of the force (Detectives, mostly, and a couple of Forensics guys) mill around the entrance. It turns out that they’re not there for no reason; as soon as Eleanor and Liam arrive, Andy turns and says, “Oh, was just about to text you about the meeting. Should start any second now, soon as Cowell’s free.”

 

“Danielle said they arrested John Rogers,” Eleanor says.

 

“Yeah,” Andy replies, nodding. “Yeah, they did, fuckin’ A.”

 

“Who?” Liam asks.

 

“Oh, obviously the one person who’s going to be absolutely insufferable about it,” Andy replies, nodding at someone behind them. Liam turns, and of course; it’s Max George lounging in one of the chairs closest to the front, feet propped up on the desk.

 

“Well, he can be smug all he likes,” Eleanor says, reacting to Max’s self-satisfied air with an unimpressed look. “No one’s seen John Rogers in ages. That outstanding warrant for his arrest must be a few years old now.”

 

“Four,” Andy supplies. “Lucky for us they issued the warrant right away, as soon as we got that kid to rat him out for a plea bargain. Else we wouldn’t be able to hold him.”

 

Simon calls for their attention at that moment, and the room falls silent almost at once; Simon has that effect on most people, and it’s particularly noticeable on his employees.

 

“Right. So.” Simon disengages from the group of rookie officers, taking up a spot at the front of the room with his hands behind his back. “As some of you may have heard, we’ve arrested John Rogers.”

 

There’s no responding, collective mutter that goes through the room, and Simon doesn’t seem to expect one; after all, news travels fast in this building.

 

“Now, as some of you were not on the force back when Rogers was a very real, very constant thorn in our side, I’ll walk you through his career.”

 

Liam stops listening as Simon details a rap sheet longer than his arm, most of it connected to a solid twenty-year span in organized crime. John Rogers was big-time back when Liam ran the same streets as Louis; not that anyone had ever met him personally, but his name was familiar. For all the nonsense Louis – and others – tried to drag Liam into, he never got in really close with the types of kids who would’ve gone on to work in John Rogers’ world.

 

Liam’s not sure if it was him that Louis was working for or not when he was arrested; Liam hadn’t made Detective yet when it happened, and he’s not enough of a dedicated rule-breaker to go poking around in Louis’ files. He does know that Louis knew him, at least; John Rogers was on the list of dead ends they encountered when Louis first escaped from prison and they were hunting down his known associates.

 

“On March 4th, 2008, we know that John Rogers left his home in the east end around eight pm,” Simon’s saying, and Liam recognizes this, because it’s the crime for which John Rogers is finally going to serve time. “We know he visited a property on Whittaker belonging to a business associate of his who owed him a substantial debt, and we know he was responsible for a fire that broke out on the lower floor and ended up gutting the building. We know he was aware that the property was currently inhabited by the business associate’s father, Roy Evans, who died in the blaze. And the reason why we know all this…”

 

Simon brings up a slide on the projector. The face is instantly familiar to Liam.

 

“Raymond Randall. Small-time criminal, in and out of the justice system since he was sixteen, got mixed up with John Rogers somewhere along the way.” Simon surveys them all; some of them remember this, having been on the force long enough. The rookie cops are hearing it for the first time. “Through a stroke of luck, we managed to pick him up and have him roll over on Rogers with a promise that his identity would be kept a secret and he would be given a lesser sentence.”

 

Liam suddenly has a bad feeling he can’t explain, curling up tight and warm in the pit of his stomach.

 

“Now, here is the unfortunate part,” Simon says. The grim way his jaw is set suggests that ‘unfortunate’ is the least of it. “Randall’s testimony has holes we can’t quite fill. John Rogers has an alibi for at least part of the night in question, and we can’t go back and clear up what precisely happened because…”

 

_Raymond Randall is dead,_ Liam thinks, seconds before Simon voices it aloud.

 

“He died in prison,” Simon continues. “Last year.”

 

“So what now, then?” Andy asks, even though he knows, like they all do.

 

“So now, we need to find someone else willing to plug those holes for us,” Simon answers. “Or we need to find someone willing to roll over on one of his extensive list of other crimes. And we have to do it in the next forty-eight hours.”

 

“Or John Rogers walks,” Eleanor says.

 

“Or John Rogers walks,” Simon confirms.

 

The room falls into a troubled, contemplative silence for just a moment before Simon begins grimly delegating tasks.

 

-

 

Harry hasn’t been able to visit his sister in a long time. Standing on the sidewalk outside of the building she lives in hammers that home in a way he hasn’t experienced it before. He hasn’t seen her since she last visited him in prison, and he hasn’t been in prison in over a year. It wasn’t prudent to tell her where he was going, even if he had had time; the police must have questioned her when he escaped, and kept up surveillance on her place. Harry feels guilty about that on a level he never did before, now that he’s here and about to see her again.

 

The inside of the tiny foyer between the outside door and the locked inner one is bleak and cold, water stains marring the paint. Harry finds the number he needs in the dim light from the dirty overhead fixture and hesitates before he pushes it.

 

Then he waits.

 

“Yeah?”

 

Harry feels a hot lump of something working its way up into his throat. “Gem? It’s me. I mean, it’s Harry.”

 

There’s a brief silence. Then: “You’re such a shit, get up here right now.”

 

There’s a clatter, and then the door buzzes. Harry blinks and grabs the handle, letting himself in. By the time he reaches Gemma’s floor, she’s waiting on the landing, looking murderous.

 

“ _You,_ ” she hisses, “are my least-favourite person in the world.”

 

She grabs Harry by the front of his shirt, almost dragging him off his feet, and folds him into a hug that breaks the levee inside of him somewhere. The deep, shuddering sobs that come out of him are so alien; Harry didn’t know he could make a sound like that, and he certainly didn’t know he could feel like this, so much loss tempered by relief, and love. Gemma holds on tight and rocks him, hushing him gently. He realizes dimly that they’re in the middle of the hallway outside of her flat, but she makes no move to hustle him inside and Harry’s grateful.

 

At last, once he’s settled and the well feels like it’s finally gone dry inside of him, Harry eases back a little. Tilting his head back to look at the ceiling he swallows once, twice; takes a deep breath.

 

“I missed you,” Gemma tells him. “Even if you are an idiot.”

 

Harry chokes out a tiny laugh. “Yeah. I really, really missed you, too.” Their second hug is less intense than the first one, feels less like drowning. This time, it’s Gemma who pulls away first, leading the way into the flat and shutting the door to the hall behind them.  
  


“Tea?” She asks, brisk and business-like, and Harry gives a fast little nod. She pulls his head in and presses a kiss to his temple before she goes into the kitchen, indicating he should make himself comfortable.

 

Harry moves with what feels like caution down the hall toward the living area. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but when he steps into the sunlit space, quiet little dust motes dancing in the air, he finds that it is a perfectly ordinary room.

 

The last time he saw Gemma outside of a courtroom or a prison visiting area, she had just moved into this flat. There had been boxes everywhere, an array of completely glorious clutter, all of Gemma’s things – all of the things Harry coveted as a child, Gemma’s records and her ironic figurines and the massive Warhol print of Marilyn Monroe – scattered about. Gemma had flung herself down on a pile of cardigans and high-heeled shoes and declared dramatically that she was never going to finish unpacking, but live in unmitigated chaos forever.

 

The records are neatly stacked on a shelf, the figurines are long gone, and Marilyn seems to watch him from over the mantel, safe behind a classy frame where she probably belongs. Harry recognizes none of the furniture, and something about the way the carefully-hung drapes offset the carpet makes it feel like a stranger decorated this place.

 

He’s standing in front of the shelf that holds her records, looking at the spines intently, hands clasped behind his back, when he hears Gemma come into the room behind him.

 

“Tea,” she says, and he turns and takes it from her, dimple pooling momentarily when he sees she remembers how he takes it.

 

“Sit,” Gemma adds crisply, and Harry obediently folds himself onto the unfamiliar sofa, careful not to spill a drop of tea.

 

“So.” Gemma sits across from him, in the dark purple velvet chair that’s the only piece of furniture Harry would pick out of a lineup as belonging to his sister. “Tell me what’s been going on.”

 

Harry explains as best he can. It’s funny, the way he can manage to go back to the beginning and explain meeting Louis and breaking out of prison and their life on the run, when the steady thrum of _Louis’ gone_ is what underwrites everything. It’s all that he wants to have to say, but unfortunately Gemma’s not been a part of his life in a long time, and she’s going to need a little more than that.

 

“He wouldn’t just walk away from me for no reason,” Harry says, both hands curled loosely around his tea cup. “I know he’s a con artist and if you saw his criminal record you’d know he’s basically a professional liar, but not to me.”

 

“He lied to you about starting to break the law again, though,” Gemma points out. She meets his gaze squarely; Harry will get no bullshit from her.

 

Harry’s eyes flick away at once. “I know,” he admits. “But that’s not the same as – like. It’s not the same as just disappearing. If we find him and he’s, um, it turns out that he left for a reason, then I’ll respect that and stay away. But I want him to have to say it to my face.”

 

“Do you even know where to start looking?” Gemma asks. “Do you know any of his – I don’t know what to call them, even. Associates?”

 

Harry lets out a breath, muted in the quiet apartment. “No. I, um. I tried to find some help. But I don’t know if it’s going to pan out at all.”

 

The knock on the door startles them both. Gemma stares at Harry and Harry stares back; it could be one of the neighbours, obviously. But they both come to a similar conclusion at the same time, as Gemma takes his tea cup from him and Harry vanishes into the bedroom. Gemma, having seen enough episodes of CSI not to get tripped up by something so simple, stashes Harry’s cup in the first cupboard in the kitchen before she makes her way to the front door.

 

“Yeah?” she calls, raising her voice slightly. “Who is it?”

 

There’s a slight pause. “A friend of Louis’.”

 

There’s no movement or sound from the bedroom, but Gemma can almost feel Harry suck in a breath.

 

“If I open the door and you’re some kind of maniac, be forewarned that my brother is a wanted felon and he is loose on the streets right now,” Gemma calls. “He will fuck you up.”

 

There’s a laugh that peters off into a giggle. “D’you have another brother that I don’t know about, or are we still talking about Harry? What fate do I have to look forward to, death by curls?”

 

Gemma narrows her eyes and pulls the door open a crack, holding her tea cup high just in case she needs to smash someone over the head with it.

 

“Hi.” A bottle blond with a gleaming smile waves cheekily. “I’m Niall.”

 

There’s a clatter from the bedroom, and then Harry comes hurtling down the hallway. Gemma gets out of the way just in time for Harry to yank the door open all the way, beaming.

 

“ _Niall._ ”

 

“Can I come in, before we announce to the whole building that we’re here?” Niall asks, grinning.

 

As soon as the door is closed behind them, Harry hugs Niall violently.

 

“All right, all right, Haz, a person needs to breathe,” Niall says, patting him on the back.

 

“I tried to come and see you,” Harry says, disentangling himself.

 

“I know,” Niall replies.

 

“ _How?_ ” Harry stares at him. “A lady lives there now. She said you’d moved.”

 

“Yeah, well, if you’re the wanted leader of an underground criminal organization, you don’t exactly invite every caller ‘round for tea,” Niall points out. “I knew you came by. It was just a matter of tracking you down after, which was no easy feat, I’m tellin’ ya.”

 

 “This is the first place you looked, isn’t it,” Gemma says.

 

“Had someone watching the house. Dropped me a text when Harry came by.” Niall winks at her. “Also probably a reason why Harry shouldn’t be here. Although I think the manhunt’s died down just about for good now, unless you do something else to get yourself on the evening news.”

 

“Not if I can help it,” Harry says.

 

“Good, good.” Niall stuffs his hands into his pockets. “So. You’re looking for Louis.”

 

“Yeah.” Harry sounds relieved that Niall’s taking control. He’s been in this business a lot longer than Harry has. “Do you know, like – anything? Have you heard anything?”

 

“As a matter of fact, I have,” Niall says, but he doesn’t look as pleased about it as Harry would have wagered.

 

“Is it not good?” Harry asks.

 

“He’s not hurt or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Niall reassures him. “Come on, let’s sit down. See if your lovely sister would make us some tea.”

 

“Gemma,” she corrects.

 

“Still lovely,” Niall corrects right back.

 

Gemma cocks an eyebrow at him before she leaves the room. Niall seems like he thinks that’s a good sign.

 

“Anyway. Where was I? Oh. Yeah. Lou.” Niall sits down on the edge of the couch and clasps his hands together. “The good news is, he’s alive and well.”

 

“That’s the important bit,” Harry says, his back releasing a tiny amount of tension.

 

“Yeah, well, don’t get too excited. You’re not going to like this next part.” Niall rolls his shoulders. “He’s working for a guy with a, uh. Similar field of work as me, if you follow.”

 

Harry doesn’t. Well, he understands what Niall means, but he doesn’t understand what that has to do with Louis. “Why?”

 

Niall shrugs. “Dunno. S’pose I could take a guess. With that scar on his kisser he’s not bloody likely to get a real, respectable job, is he? Not without being noticed.”

 

“Yeah, but.” Harry’s eyebrows knit together. “I guess where I’m going, is, why would he not tell me he was leaving? I would’ve gone with him.”

 

“I don’t know, Haz,” Niall says, and this time he sounds genuinely sympathetic. “I haven’t talked to him, I just know what I’ve heard. He’s back at the same old racket as before he did his time. That’s all I know, mate.”

 

Harry’s going to need a minute or two to process the paralyzing feeling of being left behind that’s starting to creep-crawl up his spine.

 

“Ah, and here’s the kicker, by the way,” Niall says. “He could be looking at some trouble. The bloke he’s been working for, he’s just been arrested.”

 

Harry’s head comes up. “What?”

 

Niall leans forward. “You ever heard of a piece of work named John Rogers?”


	3. Where I Ain't Worth a Penny of My Bounty Back Home

Liam waits until Eleanor heads out to get some lunch – “You want anything?” she’d asked, and when he’d said, “Whatever you’re having,” she’d replied, “You know that’s a license for me to get KFC and for you to be annoyed about it” – before he picks up his phone, ducks into the stairwell, and dials the number Harry had programmed in.

 

The phone rings just one and a half times before Harry picks up. There’s a clatter, as though he’d fumbled with it in his haste to get it up to his ear.

 

“Liam? I’ve got news about Lou.”

 

“Yeah. It’s me. But don’t, um. Don’t answer like that, all right?” Liam pitches his voice low; even so, it sounds loud to him in the empty stairwell.

 

“All right,” Harry says slowly.

 

“Just in case someone else gets a hold of my phone,” Liam explains. “Hang on. Did you say you had news?”

 

“Yeah.” Harry’s voice ticks upward again, in what Liam would almost term excitement, except it feels tempered by something else. “We think we know where he is.”

 

“We?” Liam asks, immediately suspicious.

 

“Yeah,” Harry replies. “Me and, um.” There’s a voice in the background, low, and then a quiet laugh. “Me and someone who knows Louis,” Harry continues, clearly having been coached. “From when he used to work in organized crime.”

 

“That doesn’t sound good, Harry,” Liam cautions. “What’ve you gotten yourself into?”

 

“Nothing,” Harry hastens to reassure him. “He’s just going to help me track down Lou, is all.”

 

“The thing is,” Liam says, then pauses, rubbing a hand down his face. “The thing is, I need to find Louis as well.”

 

“Well, yeah,” Harry says. “You’re his mate. Knowing that he’s all right has got to be pretty important.”

 

“You’re right,” Liam says, “but that’s not the only reason why I need to find him.”

 

“Yeah?” Harry instantly sounds guarded.

 

“It’s not…” Liam trails off, shaking his head. “It’s just that I need his help with something, is all. I really need to talk to him.”

 

“About what?” Harry asks.

 

“It’s not important,” Liam lies, “just a case of mine that concerns someone he used to work with.”

 

“John Rogers,” Harry says at once, and Liam is taken aback.

 

“Where did you hear that name?” he asks.

 

“That’s the bloke Louis disappeared to go and work for,” Harry says. “Lou’s – friend told me that. And about how he’s been arrested.”

 

“Yeah,” Liam agrees, feeling slightly like he’s veering toward something out of his depth. He doesn’t know who this friend of Louis’ might be, but he has the feeling that getting caught being in cahoots with him is going to make a lot more trouble for him than simply digging up a few leads for Harry.

 

Zayn would flip. Liam realizes that with a start and a lurch of unpleasantness; he knows already that he can’t tell him, and he hates keeping secrets from Zayn.

 

“Listen, Harry, d’you think I could come with you, when you go down to round up Louis?” Liam asks.

 

There’s a brief silence. “I don’t know,” Harry says hesitantly. “I don’t want to just – I mean, obviously he’s not got the best relationship with the police. And his, um, colleagues probably won’t either.”

 

“It’s not the police, it’s _me_ ,” Liam says.

 

“Yeah.” Harry is silent for another moment. “All right, then. Meet me at the park on Cornerstone and 7th in an hour.”

 

-

 

The problem is, when Liam pieces it together later, that he’s a terrible liar. When Eleanor comes back with, yep, true to her word, KFC, and dumps containers of takeout onto his desk, she takes one look at his face and says, “What are we doing this afternoon, then?”

 

“Nothing,” Liam tries to tell her. “Well – I’ve got a bit of a lead, barely anything, actually, but thought I might drive down and follow up on it in a bit.”

 

“Oh, ace. What lead?” Eleanor asks, ripping open food containers with the ferocity of someone who hasn’t eaten in a month when Liam knows for a fact she had McDonald’s breakfast two hours ago.

 

“It’s not really much of anything,” Liam says, wishing he’d thought this out better.

 

“Look, Payno.” Eleanor fixes him with a look. “We’ve got less than 48 hours to pin something real to John Rogers. Either the lead is a good lead, in which case we should both go, or it’s a dead-end and we can’t afford to waste time following up. So which is it?”

 

And that’s how Liam ends up pulling into a parking spot along 7th Avenue forty-five minutes later with Eleanor in the passenger seat.

 

It’s not that he’s told her the whole truth. As she peers out the windshield, sipping on her gargantuan Mountain Dew leftover from lunch, Liam wonders uneasily if leaving out some key details is going to get one of them hurt. Specifically, the fact that Liam knows Louis outside of a professional context, and that Harry had come to his house the other night to ask for help, and that whichever friend of Louis’ that Harry’s bringing along might not be all too thrilled to see Liam and a cop who’s _not_ in the loop get out of the car.

 

Liam doesn’t know how to broach these things with her; he knows she’ll be angry about the part where he and Louis go way back, because he’s been keeping that from her since they initially started their investigation into Louis’ whereabouts when he first broke out of prison, over a year ago. The rest of it is just plain not-smart on Liam's part, and he knows he’d get a lecture about that similar to the one he got from Zayn if she knew. All he'd told her at the station, then, was that he'd received a phone call from one of his old friends from the neighbourhood – she knows that Liam grew up on these streets, at least, and keeps in touch with more than one childhood mate – and that she’s got to promise to let Liam take the lead on it.

 

He’d texted Harry not to be recognizable, not specifying why. He’d figured that going out in public was reason enough; Harry was on 'wanted' posters across the country last year, after all.

 

“So where are we meeting this guy?” Eleanor asks, unbuckling her seatbelt and settling back into her seat, relaxed considering the circumstances.. “It is a guy, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Liam replies. “We’re meeting him and his friend by that awning on the right-side edge of the park. Listen, they think I’m coming alone, d’you think you could stay undercover and keep an eye out from a distance?”

 

Liam’s going to have a hard enough time trying to talk to Louis, once they find him, with Eleanor present; he doesn’t need the risk of her recognizing Harry, or figuring out that there are a few areas where Liam has left out some extremely pertinent details.

 

He’s not sure what he expected, but Eleanor just shrugs in response to his request. “Sure.”

 

Liam breathes slightly easier.

 

They’re a little early; at least, there’s enough time for Liam to sit there with currents of anxiety running up his back, jiggling his knee to the point where Eleanor idly points out, without looking away from where she’s scanning the park outside the passenger window: “You’re making the whole car move.”

 

Liam stops at once, but starts up again not twenty seconds later.

 

When he glances at his watch and it’s three minutes to the hour, Liam gets out of the car with an outward composure he doesn’t feel. Eleanor gives him a little wave that’s more of a flick of her fingers than anything: “I’ll give you some space to get ahead of me, and catch up in a minute.”

 

Liam nods, stepping up onto the sidewalk and heading away across the grass without glancing back. The meeting spot Harry suggested is deserted. Liam can hear children yelling somewhere, but it has to be coming from a jungle gym that he can’t see, on the other side of the dense stand of trees lining the path, maybe.

 

There’s an empty bench; Liam sweeps dead leaves off it and sits, jamming his hands into the pockets of the leather jacket that potentially originally belonged to Zayn. _(“That’s mine.” “Yep. I’m wearing it.” “Yeah, well, keep it, you giant clothes-stealing man-child, the shoulders are all, like, stretched out now.” “Clothes-stealing man-child?” “Yeah. Reckon I should call the police.” “Reckon you should.”)_

 

Liam doesn’t want to have time to think about how many kinds of angry Zayn’s going to be when he finds out how all of this is going down, that eyes-downcast, fists clenched, shoulders-past-Liam, don’t-look-at-me angry he gets only very rarely. Honestly, if Zayn never finds out, Liam’s going to thank a higher power and start building churches. Zayn hates being lied to, and when he’s seriously ticked off, he punishes Liam by acting like they don’t even live in the same house together. It’s something Liam’s become accustomed to over the years, not that he lets it happen often; not being on speaking terms with Zayn is like being alone in a weird way Liam can’t remember feeling before he met Zayn.

 

Liam stirs, rousing himself from his thoughts when a lone figure crosses the park toward him. Liam waits until he’s within earshot before he mutters, “Keep walking, I’ll wait thirty seconds and then follow you.”

 

To his credit, Harry doesn’t even break his stride, continuing past Liam like he doesn’t know him.

 

Liam doesn’t move for a long moment, for all the world like he’s still waiting for Harry, before he rises casually and sets off down the path after him. He sends a mental apology to Eleanor, who was watching from the car; he’ll definitely have some explaining to do later, providing she doesn’t murder him long enough for him to get a word in.

 

He’s definitely breaking protocol.

 

He clears the trees behind Harry in time to see the latter get into a scratched, white Civic from the late ‘90s (Liam runs over the plates in his mind, automatic, _EA10 HTV_ , in case the Civic is important later). It’s now that Liam starts to feel that restless tension in his stomach, like he’s about to do something that isn’t particularly smart and if he were half the detective he always promises he is, he’d wait for Eleanor to catch up.

 

He gets into the car anyway, because he doesn’t have much of a choice if he wants to make sure John Rogers does time.

 

The first thing he registers is that it smells oddly clean and chemical. The second thing is that the driver is blond, and despite his sunglasses, he’s familiar in the rearview mirror.

 

Liam is speechless for a moment, before he comes round. “ _Niall Horan_.”

 

The blond grins. “Who’s that?”

 

“ _This_ is your friend, Harry?” Liam asks in disbelief, leaning forward between the front seats.

 

“Best put your seatbelt on, mate,” Niall says, clearly having an excellent time. “Safety first.”

 

“I met him in prison,” Harry explains, unperturbed by Liam’s aggravation over their current company.

 

“I wasn’t aware he spent enough time in prison to make friends,” Liam says, clipped.

 

Niall laughs. “I like your police officer, Harry. Have you got any more?”

 

“That’d be useful,” Harry says ponderously.

 

Liam sits back. _So this is happening._ He’s in a car with not only Harry Styles, convicted murderer and wanted felon, but Niall Horan, the Irish crime boss known for his ability to slip through nets.

 

Sometimes Liam’s life is a thriller or a drama, but sometimes it’s also a really terrible comedy.

 

“So you’re taking us to Louis,” Liam says. “Right? That’s where we’re going?”

 

“Well, I was about to cab you to your lunch date,” Niall says, “but since you asked so nicely, Officer Payne, then I’ll have to see what I can do about that.”

 

“Detective Payne,” Liam corrects automatically. “And do not jerk me around, Horan.”

 

“He’s just trying to get a rise out of you,” Harry puts in. “He’s taking us to Louis. He promised.”

 

“Relax, Detective,” Niall says easily, glancing back to check his blind spot as he wheels around a corner. Liam sees a very brief flash of blue eyes around the sides of his sunglasses. “The heat was bad enough when one of my employees _nearly_ killed you; it’s too much of a hassle to finish the job.”

 

“Deeply sorry that my gaping chest wound was an inconvenience,” Liam mutters. When did he get this _sarcastic_? It seems like even having Louis Tomlinson in close proximity to his life causes him to rub off on Liam. The thought makes Liam scowl.

 

“I actually am sorry about that,” Niall says, the ever-present smile dropping a notch. “Sincerely, mate. It was an accident.”

 

Liam doesn’t know how to respond to that, mostly because he isn’t entirely sure if Niall is taking the piss or not, so he doesn’t say anything at all, choosing instead to stare out the window and mark his location.

 

He recognizes these streets. It’s been a long time since he’s lived down here, but not much is different from the way he remembers it. Storefronts come and go, but the buildings never change, and while he doesn’t recognize faces, he recognizes types of people, as though the revolving door of society’s least fortunate has frozen this neighbourhood in place over the past fifteen years.

 

He sends an e-mail to himself: The make and model of the car, the plate number, and his current companions, as well as the street they’re on and the time. When he gets back to the office, he can delete it, but until then, it’s his security. If he doesn’t come back, there’ll be a solid place to start looking. He doesn’t trust Niall as far as he can throw him, but from his vantage point, Niall is right; it doesn’t make sense to kill a cop for no reason. If Liam even suspected Niall might have a motive, he wouldn’t still be in the car.

 

And if nothing else, Liam thinks he can trust Harry, inasmuch as Harry, for all he’s a felon, doesn’t seem like a liar. Liam’s a fairly good judge of character at this point, and everything he knows about Harry tells him that Harry won’t deal with him in bad faith.

 

Liam’s main reason for staying, though, is that he badly needs Louis’ testimony. He has a hunch that if he’s not with Harry when Harry finds Louis, the two of them will disappear again, and Liam can’t let that happen.

 

When Niall loops around a dead end street and comes to a stop across from a beat-up garage under a series of bachelor flats, Liam feels the tension in his shoulders kick up another level. There’s a woman smoking outside of the door that leads to the apartments, but she pays them no mind. Niall turns around and hands his sunglasses to Liam.

 

“You look like a cop,” he explains, when Liam doesn’t immediately accept them. “And here.” He passes him a snapback that’s seen better days.

 

“Now you look like a drug dealer,” Harry observes, when Liam stuffs it on over his bristly hair.

 

Niall grins. “That’s the plan.”

 

“What now, then?” Liam asks.

 

“Now you two follow me,” Niall replies. “And don’t say anything, yeah?”

 

He gets out of the car; Liam and Harry do the same. Niall doesn’t wait for them, glancing up the road for traffic as he heads across the street. Harry falls into step next to Liam, as though he’s uncertain about walking alone in a neighbourhood like this.

 

Liam thinks that’s darkly funny, given that Harry’s a convicted criminal wanted for worse than anyone around here has ever done.

 

Niall takes them around the side of the building, where there’s a door that’s been propped open. It leads into the darkness inside the garage, and Niall leads them inside without a moment’s hesitation. Harry follows at once; Liam hangs back in the doorway.

 

The inside of the garage is really not as dark as Liam thought it was. There are dim overhead lights on, and it’s almost like a warehouse, boxes of this and that – all of it unlabeled – stacked to the ceiling in long, slightly disorganized rows. A couple of men glance up from a beat-up laptop when they come in, but Niall gives them a wave and they go back to what they’re doing.

 

“Wait here,” Niall says.

 

“I’d rather not,” Liam says.

 

“Look, mate, d’you think I’d do something stupid? I know you were texting away in the back seat, tellin’ god knows how many people where you are.” Niall’s voice is too quiet to be overheard by the two men on their laptop, even if they were paying attention. “Wait here, I said. I’ll be back in a half-second. Swear on me mum.”

 

Liam lets him go, but he takes Harry by the arm and leads him outside, into the daylight.

 

“What are we doing?” Harry asks.

 

“Staying safe,” Liam replies.

 

Harry doesn’t ask any more questions, but he keeps his eyes on that darkened garage doorway.

 

Nearly five minutes pass before they hear Niall’s voice, cheerful and relaxed as ever, laughing at the ends of his sentences. Liam’s not sure how he knows that Niall’s talking to Louis, but he does.

 

He’s right, although when Louis comes out of the garage in Niall’s wake a moment later, too fixed on the tail end of whatever Niall is joking about to notice Harry and Liam right away, Louis is not the kid Liam remembers. He’s not sure why he was expecting that; Liam’s seen Louis the convict, he knows exactly what Louis looks like with that scar that bisects his face, but somehow when he thinks of Louis, that’s not what he pictures.

 

The old wound that cuts across Louis’ face has faded a little since prison, but not appreciably. His hair is longer, and dyed dark; he looks impossibly tired, with dark circles under his eyes that feel permanent. When he does glance over at Liam and Harry, his eyes pass over them at first, as though he’s accustomed to not holding a stranger’s gaze long enough to stick out in their mind.

 

And then his eyes backtrack – first to Liam, then to Harry.

 

He abruptly turns and starts walking, so fast it’s nearly a run, down the alleyway.

 

Niall jogs to catch up, murmuring something to him. Louis hesitates, then nods and lets Niall take the lead. Niall glances over his shoulder, indicating that Liam and Harry should follow.

 

The tiny street behind the building is lined with dumpsters and totally deserted, the buildings windowless at the back. Harry doesn’t have time to do more than approach Louis’ tensed back before Louis whirls around and grabs Harry’s head in his hands, fingers knitting into the curls, holding on so tight that it looks painful.

 

Harry doesn’t pull away.

 

“Why are you here?” Louis demands.

 

“I was looking for you,” Harry replies simply.

 

“Fuck.” Louis jerks Harry forward and presses their foreheads together. “Fuck.”

 

Louis exhales, and Harry closes his eyes. For a long moment, they don’t move. And then Louis releases Harry, almost violently, and steps back.

 

“You weren’t supposed to come looking,” he says.

 

“I did anyway,” Harry answers.

 

“I didn’t want you to come,” Louis hisses. “I didn’t want to be found, Harry, how hard is that to understand – people don’t just walk out on other people because they want the other person to track them _down_. God. _Go home._ What are even doing here?”

 

“I wanted to make sure you were all right,” Harry says, jamming his hands into his pockets and regarding Louis with a look up through his eyelashes. Liam doesn’t even know Harry well and he can read the hurt in his eyes. “And if you don’t want to see me again, I think I deserve to be told.”

 

Louis deflates a little. “What am I supposed to do when you look at me like that?”

 

“I just, um.” Harry looks like it’s painful to ask. “If I did something, or – or – ”

 

“You didn’t,” Louis says at once. “It wasn’t you.” He drags a hand down his face, looking agitated.

 

"Then what?" Harry presses.

 

Louis looks unwilling, like he'd rather just keep pushing Harry away but can't actually bring himself to do it. “Look, I didn’t mean for it to happen like this," he says, dropping his voice, his words coming out harsh and pointed anyway. "Someone that I used to work for sorted out who I am and where I was living and he blackmailed me into doing some projects for him - threatening to turn me in, like - and I was worried that if I stayed with you, it wouldn’t be long before he figured out who you were and tried to suck you in, too."

 

He runs out of air and stands, desperately looking at Harry. “And I didn’t want that to happen because you’re fucking good. You’re fucking _good_. I don’t want you – in this. Doing what I’m doing. And I knew that if I told you why I was leaving, you’d do something stupid and noble like come with me.”

 

Niall has vanished, Liam registers, even as Harry and Louis stare at each other and the silence stretches, filled only by the sound of traffic going by on the nearby road and Louis’ unquiet breathing.

 

“Not to get in the middle, or anything,” Liam begins, “but – ”

 

“Hi, Liam, hope you’ve been well,” Louis says, without taking his eyes off of Harry. “Would you do me a favour and _shut up_?”

 

Harry makes a sound like he’s not sure whether to laugh and it’s startled him out of his heartache.

 

“ _No_ ,” Liam says, ignoring the venom in Louis' voice. “I can’t. I need to talk to you.”

 

Louis’ jaw twitches in annoyance, but he tears his eyes away from Harry and stalks over to Liam, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him around the corner.

 

“Listen, whatever it is, _Liam_ , can it absolutely not _wait –_ ”

 

There’s the sound of an intake of breath nearby, and Liam only catches a glimpse of Eleanor out of the corner of his eye before she’s got the barrel of her gun aimed directly between Louis’ shoulder blades.

 

“Hands where I can see them,” she barks. “Down on the ground, _right now._ ”

 

Louis swears. “You’ve _got_ to be kidding.” He acquiesces with her request, even as he shoots a poisonous look at Liam. “ _Really,_ Payno, after everything – ”

 

“You’re under arrest,” Eleanor snaps. She looks absolutely livid. “And _you_ , Liam, owe me a fucking explanation.”


	4. Just Make Us Be Brave, and Make Us Play Nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hell, at long last, a new chapter! What is wrong with me you guys, seriously. If you see me in the street, knock my hat off or something.

“I’m sorry I lied to you.”

 

Eleanor looks like she would very much like to reach out and slap Liam upside the head. He braces himself, in case she follows through.

 

“This is not about personal betrayal, Liam, although am I harbouring a sizable, fuck-off need to hit you in the face? Rhetorical question. Yes I am.” Eleanor’s voice is so controlled in volume but so pointed and vicious that by tone alone, Liam’s sure that Louis, who is cuffed and glaring from the back seat of the cruiser, could write a pretty decent transcript of the entire conversation.

 

“That’s fair,” Liam says. “That’s more than fair – ”

 

“ _Shut up_ ,” Eleanor hisses. “You need to tell me what’s going on, and I need to know now. _Right_ now.”

 

“I – here?” Liam asks weakly.

 

“Would you rather we take him down to the station and book him first?” Eleanor demands.

 

Liam winces. “No.”

 

“Yeah, I thought not.” Eleanor throws up her hands and paces away from him before stalking back. “I was holding out hope that you appearing to know Louis Tomlinson on a personal level was just a glitch in my observation skills, but apparently it’s not.”

 

“It’s not what it looks like,” Liam says, because – well, partially, it is, but he had good intentions.

 

“That’s good, because what it looks like is that you lied to a fellow police officer about meeting a known fugitive from the law.” Eleanor looks him dead in the eye. “Are you a crooked cop, Liam?”

 

Liam is horrified, and it must show on his face because that’s the moment when a tiny amount of tension vanishes from Eleanor’s expression.

 

“ _No_ ,” Liam begins, but Eleanor’s already accepted it.

 

“You’re a terrible liar so I reckon it would show up on your face if you _were_ crooked,” she acknowledges, grabbing his elbow and towing him away from the car, out of Louis’ earshot. Liam isn’t off the hook, though. “Right, so. Explain to me how you know Tomlinson, and leave absolutely nothing out. I’m warning you, Liam, if you try to lie to me again, even by omission, I _will_ find out and I’ll request a new partner. D’you understand?”

 

“Yes,” Liam says at once. “Yes, I understand. I should’ve told you, El, I just – um.” He drags a hand across the back of his head. “All right.”

 

Eleanor’s expression cuts him no slack at all. And, as expected, it doesn’t improve.

 

By the time he finishes explaining, Eleanor is standing with her hands on her hips, looking only faintly incredulous but a lot angry. It’s taken so long that Liam paused halfway through and Eleanor, knowing why without having to clarify, cracked a window for Louis.

 

“You shouldn’t leave dogs, children, or criminals in the car unattended,” Louis had complained.

 

“You’re lucky I don’t leave you unattended in the trunk. Shut _up_ ,” Eleanor had told him.

 

Louis had.

 

Now, Eleanor paces around to the front of the police car, and back again. Liam knows she’s turning everything over in her mind, looking for loopholes, the way they do when they’re questioning a suspect they don’t anticipate will be particularly truthful. It hurts, a little, even though he knows he earned it.

 

“You’ve got to give me something, Liam,” Eleanor says at last. “I know that you and him go way back, and that he saved your life, and that Styles asked for your help in finding him, but I need to know why we’re doing this _right_ now instead of using our _rapidly dwindling_ window of time to find something that will stick to John Rogers. I need to know why tracking down a criminal you weren’t even intending on arresting took precedence over actual police work. And I’m still furious that you lied to me, but you can make that up to me later, when we’re not on a really, really important deadline.”

 

That’s the crux of the matter, really. Now they’re about to find out if all of this was worth it. “Right.” Liam glances back at the car window, where Louis is eyeing his cuffed hands in his lap, as though contemplating slipping free. “I think that Louis might be able to help us,” he admits.

 

“I’m listening,” Eleanor says, which, bless her, is more than Liam has a right to hope for.

 

“He used to do some work for John Rogers, back in the day,” Liam says. “And I think – or, I was told, by a source – ”

 

“Liam,” Eleanor warns.

 

“Styles told me,” he says. “All right? Styles told me that Louis might be working for John Rogers _now._ ”

 

“So the arson thing,” Eleanor begins.

 

“We may not be able to get that to stick,” Liam admits. “But we may be able to find something else that will.”

 

Eleanor eyes him for a moment. Liam can almost watch the gears turning in her mind, weighing the situation and the veracity of Liam's claims. Years of working together seem to win out, because she nods. “All right. But Liam?”

 

Liam looks just a little bit like a schoolchild who knows he’s done something wrong. “Yeah?”

 

“You follow _my_ lead. Yeah? And you’d best remember that it’s you and me on a team, not you and Tomlinson.”

 

Liam nods vehemently; grateful. “Yeah. Yeah, El, again, I’m really – ”

 

“Sorry. Yes. I know.” It’s the faintest degree softer in tone and Liam decides to take what he can get as she steels her shoulders and walks around the car to the other side. “This could work out; I’ll give you that. Especially now that we’ve got leverage.”

 

“Leverage?” Liam echoes, but Eleanor is already yanking open the back door of the police car and sliding in next to Louis.

 

“Liam, drive.”

 

Liam does as he’s told, hurrying around to get into the car. As he pulls away from the curb, he glances in the rear-view mirror and sees Eleanor and Louis glaring at each other.

 

“So,” Eleanor says.

 

Louis simply raises an eyebrow.

 

“I’d rather be doing this at the police station, but I have the feeling you wouldn’t,” Eleanor says.

 

“How considerate.”

 

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” Eleanor snaps. “You’re on very, _very_ thin ice as it is.”

 

Louis leans back slightly. His eyes pass over Liam’s in the rear view mirror. If he’s looking for an ally, he doesn’t find one; Liam meets Eleanor’s eyes a moment later and doesn’t say anything.

 

“All right,” Louis says. “Take it easy, yeah?” There’s a half-beat, where it's clear he's got more to say but he's debating whether to say it. (This is new; the Louis that Liam knew back in the old days said anything and everything that came to mind, at once.) “It’s just that you’re sort of expecting me to be polite and reasonable, and I’m neither of those things at the very best of times, never mind when I’m cuffed in the back of a police cruiser while someone I thought was my _friend_ drives me back to a place I’m not _really_ interested in revisiting.”

 

Liam makes a sound very like a sigh from the front seat.

 

“Oh, you shut up, Payno,” Louis grits out. “Neither of us are very happy with _you_ right now, it seems like. You’ve got the least right to sigh dramatically.”

 

Liam glances at Eleanor in the rear view mirror; her expression says she doesn’t disagree.

 

And here Liam was, thinking the goal was teamwork.

 

“So,” Eleanor begins, changing the subject. “I’ve got a question for you, Tomlinson. And depending on whether I like your answer, this might still go okay for you.”

 

Louis’ eyes gleam. “Going to set me loose?”

 

“Definitely not,” Eleanor replies.

 

He shrugs, not overly devastated. “It was worth asking.”

 

“I can’t let you go, but I can offer you a pretty decent deal,” she continues, and Liam, who has lost the thread of this completely, realizes that his aimless driving means they’re pretty much heading right to the station. He abruptly takes a random left at the next intersection.

 

“I’m listening,” Louis says.

 

Eleanor gets right down to it. “If you tell us what we need to know to put John Rogers behind bars, we’ll try to get you a deal where you only have to serve the time you had remaining on your old sentence, with no additional time.”

 

Louis expels a breath. Folding his cuffed hands together, he seems to crumple in a little on himself. “I’ll take my chances in prison, thanks.”

 

Eleanor doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

 

“What about Harry?” Liam asks, at the exact same moment as Eleanor says: “We can keep you safe.”

 

Louis snorts. Liam can feel the edge of danger coming, the way he used to when he and Louis got into spats as children. There was a line that Liam was always extremely careful not to cross. It seems to have gotten easier to reach that line as the years have gone by.

 

“You can’t keep me safe,” Louis says. There’s a malevolence in his tone, but a weariness as well. “What do you know about John Rogers?”

 

There’s a half-beat of silence.

 

“That’s what I thought.” Louis sounds bitter; amused, but in a cruel way. “Let me tell you something. Don’t go around giving people choices that aren’t choices. All right? I’ve had plenty of those thrown my way, which is probably why I’m in the back of a police cruiser driven by someone who was meant to be my _friend._ ”

 

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Liam protests. "If you think I came looking for you to put you in hand-cuffs - "

 

“ _Detective._ ” That’s Eleanor. “Do you remember what I said about you and me and teamwork?”

 

“Yeah, _Detective,_ ” Louis mutters.

 

Eleanor expels a long breath out of her nose and manages not to say something cutting. Liam can tell that it takes a real effort.

 

Louis and Eleanor are not unalike, actually. Liam rather thinks they’d get along like a house afire, under better circumstances.

 

“I need to know what I can offer you in exchange for information we can use to convict John Rogers,” Eleanor says, tight and controlled. “Or I will dedicate my life to finding reasons why you should be in jail.”

 

Louis doesn’t rise to the bait. “Great. I’ve made it easy on you; there are plenty of reasons out there.”

 

Threatening him won’t work, Liam realizes. He’s like a misbehaving boy in a class at school, and going hard on him only makes him act out more.

 

Or maybe threats will only work with the right kind of leverage.

 

Eleanor seems to come to that conclusion at the same time as Liam, because she says, “Fine. Liam, put out an APB on Styles. I want him in a cell – ”

 

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” snaps Louis. “Don’t you – _fuck_ you. Leave him out of this.”

 

Louis’ tone makes Liam abruptly glad that he is hand-cuffed.

 

“Well, actually, a jury of his peers found him guilty of the murder of his step-father, so he’s been evading justice for rather a long time,” Eleanor says coolly. “This isn’t necessarily about you.”

 

“Fuck off, it’s not,” Louis says heatedly. “Do not put out that APB, Liam, I swear to god.”

 

“Give us John Rogers,” Eleanor replies steadily, “and maybe we look the other way while Styles gets out of the neighbourhood.”

 

“And maybe you tell me exactly what you think I know about John Rogers,” Louis spits. “Do you think he’s gone this long without doing time because he’s been lucky? He’s _careful_ , and he’s good at what he does.”

 

“I’m sure you could – ” Eleanor begins, but Louis interrupts.

 

“And then there’s the bit where if he even _thinks_ you’ve crossed him, everyone you love dies suddenly and violently.”

 

Liam knows this about John Rogers, like he knows it about every crime kingpin out there; you don’t stay in on top for long if you go soft on turncoats. It’s different when the faceless victims – strangled, dumped in the river, dead in an unexplained kitchen fire – are someone you know. Liam isn’t Harry’s best mate, but he doesn’t want to see him face-down in a river either.

 

“Harry would be safest if I didn’t turn on John Rogers and took the jail time,” Louis says at last. “But if that turned out not to be an option, then he’d be second-safest in a maximum security prison where I could keep an eye on him. And that’s that.”

 

“Someone nearly killed _you_ prison,” Liam points out.

 

Louis snorts. “I think _nearly killed_ is a bit of a stretch.”

 

“Well, you got stabbed in the face, mate, so I don’t know what your definition of _nearly killed_ is, but that falls under mine.”

 

“I can protect him,” Louis snaps. “I’ve done it before.”

 

“What if you don’t end up in the same prison?” Liam comes back. “What then?”

 

Eleanor settles back against the seat, simply listening. Liam sounds properly annoyed now, like he’s gotten his spine back.

 

“Who’s going to protect him on the outside?” Louis demands. “You?”

 

“I would,” Liam says heatedly.

 

“Right, because you’ve been so trustworthy.”

 

“Look,” Liam says, losing all patience. “Don’t you want to get Rogers back for the way he’s messed up your life?”

 

“I’ve messed up my own life, Liam,” Louis says, in what might be an unnerving imitation of the last prison psychologist he spoke to. “I’m not an idiot, I know I’m responsible for my choices.”

 

“Well, you didn’t choose it this time, did you?” Liam asks. “Or did you – disappear on Harry on purpose?”

 

“Of course I didn’t disappear on purpose,” Louis hisses. “I didn’t want Harry caught up in this.”

 

“Well, here’s your chance,” Eleanor says, and her voice cuts through theirs. “If you help us get John Rogers off the street, Styles can’t get caught up in it. And if Rogers’ only leverage over you was that you were worried about him turning you in, or turning Harry in, well… that leverage is gone now, isn’t it?”

 

Louis glares at Liam in the rearview mirror. “Just fucking take us to the police station.”

 

He sits with his cuffed hands in his lap and stares dully out the window for the remainder of the journey; neither detective hassles him.

 

After they take him in and book him, Eleanor yawns. “Ten quid says he takes the deal.”

 

Liam glances at her. “You reckon?”

 

“He’d be stupid not to,” she says. “What, is he going to spend the next fifteen years in prison and leave Styles on the outside, unprotected, with John Rogers’ lackeys circling like sharks? He just wants to make us sweat, is all. He knows we’re his best shot.”

 

-

 

Eleanor sees Louis in the interrogation room nearly two hours later. The chains binding his hands to the desk rattle slightly as he leans forward.

 

“We’re going to make a deal, Detective. But I’m setting the sodding terms.”

 

On the other side of the two-way glass, Liam gets out his wallet.


	5. The Whole World's Sitting on a Ticking Bomb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oy vey. My new year's resolution is to finish writing projects I've started so that's why you're getting a new chapter!

Eleanor reaches up and turns off the sound on the camera. Louis watches her do it with eyes that glitter like broken glass.

 

“First term,” he says. “Someone gets Harry out of town and makes sure he stays there. I want an eye kept on him until the trial is over, and then I want him in witness protection. If anything happens to him, I’ll recant everything.”

 

Eleanor doesn’t react. “And?”

 

“And.” Louis’ tongue slides over his lower lip. “The term you actually tell your mates in uniform about is that I don’t serve any additional time beyond my original sentence.”

 

Eleanor raises an eyebrow. “Nothing about witness protection for you for when you get out?”

 

“Nah, love.” Louis leans back and surveys her. “You know what you’re asking me to do, yeah?” The scar across his face glints palely under the ugly glare of the fluorescent lighting. He suddenly looks older than he is. “I’m not going to survive prison.”

 

“You’d be in solitary for your own protection,” Eleanor tells him.

 

“I’ll hang myself in my cell,” Louis replies. The way his eyes glint when he tilts his head is uncanny. “That’s what they’ll tell you. And there won’t be an inquest because no one gives a shit except my Harold, and none of you give a shit about him.” His fingers curl loosely in on themselves on the table. “Except so far as you can use him as leverage, apparently. And I hope you’re _quite_ happy with yourselves about that.”

 

Eleanor refuses to be baited. “It was necessary,” she says. “And now we’ll have the chance to get a major-league criminal off the streets.”

 

“And then what?” Louis challenges. He shakes his head, with what might be a smirk if there weren’t such a nasty edge to it. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourselves into. _No_ idea.”

 

“Do you think it's my first day?” Eleanor doesn't sound irritated, just coolly bored.

 

Louis shakes his head slowly. “You’re going to wish you’d never heard of John Rogers.”

 

And just by the tone in his voice and the glint in his eyes, Eleanor maybe, for a few seconds, believes him.

 

-

 

Harry had been about to follow Louis when someone had grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled – _hard_. He had stumbled backwards, flinging out his arms for balance, and managed to catch himself on the corner of the wall he had been dragged behind.

 

Now he turns around, heart thudding in his chest, and half-gasps: “Niall, _what - ?_ ” when he sees who it is.

 

But Niall doesn’t wait, grabbing himself a fresh handful of Harry’s shirt and pulling him down the alleyway. “You can walk, Styles, for the love of Christ, can’t you?”

 

“Of course I can walk, but where are we going?” Harry manages to get himself up to a speed wherein Niall no longer feels compelled to drag him. “We have to go back for Lou.”

 

“It’s too late,” Niall says, glancing both ways as he comes out of the alleyway and turning right onto the street running perpendicular. He flips his sunglasses up into his hair, eyes wary and watchful.

 

“Too late for what?” Harry asks, feeling a growing, twisting unease in the pit of his stomach.

 

“He’s being arrested,” Niall replies bluntly, crossing the street at the tail-end of a green ‘walk’ sign and breaking into a jog to make sure he makes it. Harry keeps pace easily, but he feels like he’s moving on autopilot. He moves because Niall is the only thing familiar to him on a landscape that holds very few recognizable markers at the minute, and he doesn’t know what else to do.

 

“Liam wouldn’t,” he says, because he can’t imagine being betrayed like that.

 

“Liam’s partner would,” Niall replies, “and she was smart enough to follow us in their unmarked police car. I thought maybe we had a tail but I’m usually good at throwing them.” He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. We messed up bringing your cop with us.”

 

Harry stops in his tracks. “Louis can’t go back to prison.”

 

It’s unequivocal, like the fact that the sun must come up.

 

Niall stops too, but it’s clear that it makes him antsy to do so. He keeps looking past Harry, up the street. “He might not have to go for that long. They might let him make a deal.”

 

And then, something happens that has never happened before: Harry sees an actual flicker of fear in Niall’s eyes.

 

“Ah, _shit_.” Niall scrubs at his hair. “They _will_ offer him a deal.”

 

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks.

 

“Think, Harry, yeah?” Niall asks, maybe a little harsher than he means it but not unkindly. “Who got arrested last night?”

 

Harry does not understand; his brow knits. “The man he was working for. John Rogers.”

 

"Right. And Louis knows a thing or two about John Rogers," Niall says. When Harry blinks at him, Niall very nearly rolls his eyes, but elaborates.

 

“Harry.” He puts both hands on his shoulders and tries to impress this upon him. “In my job, if I have people double-crossing me, they don’t get to live. D’you understand? Or else people would do it all the time, as soon as the price was right.”

 

Harry stares at him, and swallows. “So he can’t take the deal,” he says. “He’ll have to do the time.” He feels a rising sense of helplessness and an unexpected sense of anger. They worked so _hard_ to get here…

 

Niall shrugs. “I dunno.” He starts off up the street again, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Harry is following. “I’m thinking he might take the deal. _That's_ what I'm worried about, to be honest. If they’ve got leverage.”

 

“Leverage?” Harry echoes. “What leverage?”

 

He has fallen into step next to Niall now, and Niall shoots him a disbelieving look.

 

“Harry, mate, you can’t go on being this naïve – ”

 

Harry nearly stumbles. “ _Me_? _I’m_ the leverage?”

 

“Well, I don’t know, do I?” Niall asks, sounding a little irritated. “Detective Payne knows about you. His partner probably does by now. If they want to fry Rogers bad enough, and I reckon they do, they’d probably be willing to offer the Tommo just about anything.” Niall shrugs. “Including turning a blind eye while you go on with your life.”

 

Harry feels the blood rushing loudly in his ears.

 

Niall looks unhappy. “Let’s face it, Harry; you’re not what they call ‘high-risk’ for reoffending, mate. Might be worth the bargain for them. Dunno. We’ll see, won’t we?”

 

“What if I turned myself in?” Harry asks.

 

Niall shoots him an incredulous look. “You’d best not do something that stupid and then ever ask me for help again,” he says flatly.

 

“But I don’t know what else to do.” Harry wonders what will happen when they stop walking, if he’ll sit down somewhere and be unable to move.

 

“Don’t do anything,” Niall advises. “Wait. We don’t know anything yet. I’ll hear something through the grapevine soon, I’ve got a friend or two in the DA’s office, but until then, sit tight.”

 

Harry has to make a plan of action. He knows he does, because this helplessness is killing him. The roaring in his ears is not unlike the sound he heard the night he bought a gun, the first time.

 

He needs to make a plan. But for now, it’s all he can do to breathe deep and keep following Niall.

 

_Sit tight._ He’s almost sure he can’t.

 

-

 

“You offered him _what?_ ”

 

Zayn’s tie is loosened after a long day at the office, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows to reveal his tattoos – incongruous next to the expensive shirt and the flawless hair, perhaps, if businessman-rockstar is a thing. Liam’s always found it immeasurably attractive.

 

 “Zayn, calm down; no one knows but you, me, him, and El,” Liam says, raising placating hands. “We’ve got a perfectly good cover, no one has to know.”

 

“First of all, ‘no one has to know’ isn’t a thing,” Zayn snaps. “The reason why people go to jail is because it turns out that somebody _does_ know, which is why there are such thing as witnesses.”

 

Liam can’t argue with that; Zayn’s career is built on prising the exact right information from a given witness at a given time. “He wouldn’t talk for anything else,” Liam says stubbornly. “And we have to nail John Rogers. This might be our last shot.”

 

“Did you think about at what cost?” Zayn demands. His fingers are curled over the back of a kitchen chair, the other hand making quick, abortive gestures. “How many careers are on the line now? Yours and Eleanor’s? Mine? The Captain’s, probably, whether he knows or not? This isn’t the Wild West, Liam, you can’t go around letting murderers run loose in exchange for gang leaders.”

 

“I had to make the call,” Liam says. “Harry Styles is low-risk.”

 

“ _I don’t care what he is_.” Zayn very rarely raises his voice. When he does, it makes Liam shut up and step back at once. Both of Zayn’s hands are curled over the back of the chair now, tight enough that his rings bite into his skin. “We talked about this after the first time he came here, about putting yourself at risk. And though I didn’t like it, you said you were just going to turn over a few stones.”

 

“I know.” Liam’s voice is quieter, in retreat mode. “I should have been more honest with you about what was going on. And I’m sorry.”

 

“But you don’t think you’re wrong about the way you got Tomlinson to roll over on John Rogers.” Zayn doesn’t mean it as a question. He already knows the answer.

 

“I’m sorry,” Liam repeats. “I know it’s not ideal, but it’s the only option we had on the deadline we were on.”

 

Zayn ducks his head. There is a moment of silence that feels longer than it is, ominous as distant thunder. 

 

“Right, well. I think you should go and stay with Eleanor for the time being.”

 

Liam feels like he’s been slapped. “What?”

 

Making eye contact now, Zayn is unrelenting. “The two of you obviously think this is a great plan. And I – can’t be around you when you’re like this. I won’t watch this – unfold from up close. I can’t.”

 

“Zayn.” Liam doesn’t mean to plead, but it comes out that way anyway. “Let me stay in the house. Okay? On the couch, that’s – fair, but – ”

 

“Did you not hear what I said?” Zayn’s voice wobbles very slightly on the last word.

 

Liam knows then that the battle is lost.

 

“Zayn, I – ” he begins, miserable, but Zayn turns away, releasing the chair and leaving the kitchen with his shoulders drawn in. Liam listens to him go up the stairs, as slowly as an old man.

 

He waits until Zayn settles himself before he goes to collect some things for an overnight bag. Zayn barely acknowledges his presence. It’s as bad as it’s ever been between them; Liam can only remember half a dozen times before when Zayn froze him out like this. The problem is that thawing Zayn out isn’t as simple as leaving him alone; it takes time and effort and care, and Liam has so many other things to think about.

 

Zayn is his first priority, of course – always. But Liam can’t reason with him if he won’t engage, and he’s never been more sure in his life that he is right and Zayn is wrong. He will just have to wait this one out.

 

“I love you,” he says quietly, hesitating in the doorway on his way out of the bedroom.

 

“I love you, too.” Zayn tips his head down over his book. “Now please get out.”

 

-

 

Liam opens his eyes when Eleanor stumbles out of her bedroom at a quarter past seven the following morning, but he’s been awake for hours. Truthfully, he isn’t sure he slept much at all.

 

“Avert your gaze,” Eleanor says, lightly pushing on his head on the way past. “I look like shit. And don’t you dare say it’s no different than usual.”

 

“I wasn’t going to,” Liam says honestly.

 

“I know.” Eleanor drags her hand through her hair as she flicks on the coffee maker in the kitchen and pads into the bathroom. “You’d think that all of this time spent covertly hanging out with Louis Tomlinson would have turned you into more of a smart-ass.”

 

Liam sighs. Eleanor is one hundred per cent never going to let that go.

 

“You want to run down to the Greggs on the corner and get us some sandwiches?” she calls, the sound muffled – presumably due to toothpaste. “I have the feeling it’s going to be a long day.”

 

“Yeah.” Liam drags himself upright and rubs at his eyes. “All right.”

 

Fifteen minutes later, he’s back with sandwiches – three, because Eleanor will be hungry by ten a.m. – and balancing them on one arm while he shoulders his way into her apartment.

 

“They didn’t have any with sweet corn on,” he says. “So I just got whatever. You can pick, I’m not fussed.”

 

“Pause one second.” Eleanor is standing in the doorway to the bathroom, half-dressed in a pair of tights and her pajama shirt, a concealer stick in one hand as she scrolls through her phone. “Have you checked your messages this morning?”

 

“Um.” Liam drops the sandwiches on the table and shrugs out of his jacket. “No? I woke up and went to get sandwiches.”

 

Eleanor rolls her eyes at him. “Well, some people can multi-task.” She tosses her phone at him, and he nearly fumbles the catch, asserting his grip on it at the last second before it can fall to the floor. “Check that out.”

 

She watches while Liam peers down at the screen, skimming the heads-up email Eleanor apparently got from the Captain this morning. Eyes widening, he fetches out his own phone and opens his email.

 

“I didn’t get this message,” he says, sounding a little rattled.

 

“Well, no.” Eleanor looks faintly sympathetic; more careful with him than she usually is. “He probably assumed you already knew.”

 

“I mean I didn’t get this message from _Zayn_ ,” Liam says, and his voice has kicked up a notch, gaining just an ounce of anxiety.

 

Eleanor gives a one-shouldered shrug. “He’s pissed at you. It’s just a spat. He’ll get over it. In the meantime, he’s not going to go out of his way to tell you things you’re going to find out anyway.”

 

She turns around and goes back into the bathroom. In the reasonable privacy of the living room, Liam quickly types out a text, his spelling worse than usual because his hand shakes slightly:

 

_Just found out the da is taking this case personally and ur assisting??_

 

Two or three minutes pass before Zayn responds. It feels like eons.

 

_Was going to tell you last night but we got side-tracked._

 

Liam is floored. Zayn knew last _night_ and didn’t tell him?

 

It’s starting to make more sense, now, what Zayn had said about his career being on the line. Now he knows the secret - Liam's and Louis' and Eleanor's secret - that could make his entire case implode, taking him down with it. No wonder he had been so angry. Liam feels a cold, restless guilt work its way to life in his belly. 

 

“So?” Eleanor emerges from the bathroom wearing a skirt this time, spraying a light dusting of hairspray in a sort of haphazard circle over her head. “What did he say?”

 

Liam rubs his cheek with one hand. “Louis’ evidence only holds up for as long as no one knows the deal we made,” he says.

 

“Right,” Eleanor replies. “Obviously. Because the deal we made is illegal.”

 

Liam blinks at her. “Yeah, but if someone finds out, then the whole case falls apart,” he says. “John Rogers walks away, and Louis is in a lot of trouble for no good reason and _Zayn_ – ”

 

“Cross that bridge if we come to it,” Eleanor says, cutting him off before he can work himself up. “Jesus, Liam. No one’s going to find out. Have you told anyone? No. Have I? Of course not. Is Louis going to? Not unless he’s stupid, which I doubt. Your main worry now should be that your husband’s got a target on his back again, yeah?”

 

Liam knows all too well how this goes, too. Zayn has prosecuted dangerous criminals before, and there are always threats and extra precautions they need to take. For some reason, Liam always takes threats against Zayn more seriously than he takes threats against himself. Maybe that’s because it has started to feel commonplace in his job, to know he isn’t safe. More likely, it’s because he can more easily imagine being dead than he can imagine a world in which he doesn’t have Zayn.

 

"Everything always falls apart at once," he says, unable to quell the quiet note of tension in his voice.

 

Eleanor gives him a look, not unkind. "Why do you think I told you to go get sandwiches?"


	6. Never Let a Wound Ruin Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge, never-ending thank you to [1D_1Shots](http://archiveofourown.org/users/1D_1Shots/works), who helped me get this written. Any decent dialogue of Liam's is 100% her brainchild.

Eleanor leans back in her chair. Both she and Liam have been silent since their briefing ended and Sergeant Green left them to it, neither of them deigning to leaf through the file he left for them to read.

 

She wants her partner to say something first, because this is Zayn they’re talking about, and she plans on taking her lead from Liam. She knows how they’d react in any regular instance where a lawyer from the DA’s office was receiving threats in a high-profile case, but this is not any regular instance.

 

Reaching over, she taps the arm of his chair with one knuckle. “Penny for your thoughts?”

 

Liam glances over at her, mildly startled, as though the file on the desk in front of them had had some kind of hypnotic allure that was difficult to tear away from. “Do you think Zayn knows?”

 

Eleanor shrugs. “That there are already threats against him? Probably. Most of these were likely forwarded to us by the DA’s office, actually.” When Liam doesn’t immediately respond, she continues: “You and I both know that most of them won’t add up to anything. But… John Rogers is pretty big time. So it makes sense to take precautions.”

 

“Oh, there’ll be precautions.” Now that Liam seems to be moving past his initial malaise at the idea of Zayn being in hypothetical danger, he’s already getting down to business. Eleanor had known it was a good idea from the get-go to put them in control of Zayn’s safety detail during the trial; Liam doesn’t do well with helplessness, especially when what’s on the line is the safety of someone he cares about.

 

“Tell you what,” Eleanor says. “Let’s draw up a plan. Then you can go and give him the rundown while I make the right phone calls and pull everything together.”

 

Liam glances at her, then his eyes skate away. Eleanor refrains from rolling her eyes. “He’s not going to – say _no_ to seeing you if it’s about this. You know he trusts you more than anyone when it comes to this stuff.”

 

“I know,” Liam says. “I know, and I wouldn’t trust anyone else with briefing him either. I just… “ He trails off. Eleanor waits for him to finish, but he doesn’t. Eventually, he simply concludes: “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll send him a text.”

 

-

 

Liam takes a deep breath, raises his fist and raps on the door. It's his home too, so of course he has a key, but figures after being asked - told, really - to leave, Zayn would appreciate the gesture of him knocking. Small thing, but it makes Liam feel like a stranger, here on the steps of the home they'd picked out together, decorated together, paid the mortgage on together.

 

Zayn opens the door. He's wearing a pale pink button-up shirt rolled up to the elbows, and trousers that look like they were crisply ironed this morning but have subsequently become slightly rumpled. The lack of a tie means that he's choosing to work from home today; the fact that he's dressed in any work-appropriate clothes means that he did drop by the office earlier to pick up a few things.

 

(Liam wonders if anyone else has ever, or would ever, notice these things about Zayn, or if they are little idiosyncrasies that belong just to Liam.)

 

"Uh, come in.” Zayn steps aside to let him past, with just the barest hesitation, as though he, too, is unsure of the protocol when it comes to whether or not you have to invite someone into their own home, even if it is a home in which they aren’t currently welcome. “I was just making a cuppa. Do you want one?"

 

Zayn is always professional.

 

The thing about having a cop – Eleanor, in this instance – as Liam’s closet friend is that it’s a double-edged sword. She mercifully doesn’t push him to talk about his feelings, but he also kind of wishes they’d discussed how to go about this; paying his own husband a business call kind of feels like being kicked in the ribs.

 

He tries to answer just as casually. "No... no thanks. I think I'm good.”

 

Liam pauses in the doorway to toe off his shoes, looking around as if, in the span of just a few days, he expects the place to look different. Satisfied it doesn't, he follows Zayn into the kitchen and sits down at the table. "How, um. How are you?"

 

"Fine. Tired." Zayn sits kitty-corner to him, hands clasped loosely around his cup of tea. "It's a hell of a case."

 

Liam nods. "Yeah... it is." He waits for a second before continuing. At odds or not, being in Zayn's presence never entirely fails to calm the chaos that goes on in his head on a case of this magnitude. Finally, he shifts a little and clears his throat. "I've got some updates, about your security detail for the trial."

 

Zayn nods. "You said. In your text." He waits for Liam to go on.

 

"Right...yeah." Wishing he'd asked for tea, if for no other reason than to have something to do with his hands, Liam scratches his fingers over the stubble along his jaw. "El and I will be there, of course. We're numbers one and two for you." He doesn't specify who is number one, figuring Zayn knows. "But you'll have four other uniforms assigned to you. I'll be handpicking them myself tomorrow. You and your team will be driven to the courthouse and anyone you bring with you will have their own uniform who will be with them for the duration."

 

Zayn nods. Despite the state of their relationship, there's no one he trusts more than Liam to have his back. They both know it. "What's... your expectation for the threat level?"

 

Liam deliberates on his answer, but he knows better than to be anything less than honest. "Hope for the best, plan for the worst, right? Truth is, there is no way to know for sure."

 

Zayn mulls this over, eyes on his tea. "Just to put it out there... have you considered that they might target you to get to me?"

 

Liam wonders if he was expecting Zayn to ask that question – though as soon as the thought crosses his mind, he regrets it. For as long as they’ve been together, Zayn has been absolutely unequivocal about the importance of Liam’s safety, especially given what Liam does for a living.

 

"We have. All of the officers with you will be in protective gear, bulletproof vests and all. And I'll be taking... precautions. I've been thinking about not staying with Eleanor; the chief and I have discussed a hotel, but I'm not sure that's worth the bother, honestly."

 

Zayn doesn't immediately respond, not addressing the sudden elephant in the room about Liam's accommodations. "Have you had any actual threats yet?"

 

Liam's eyes flicker from Zayn's face to a spot behind him on the kitchen wall, a tiny chip in the stone backdrop behind the stove - a chip Liam put there himself in a rather spectacular cooking disaster. "None worth worrying about."

 

Zayn looks for Liam's eyes. He doesn’t move, but Liam can feel his own gaze being unwillingly pulled back towards him. "Are you telling me the truth?"

 

"Let me re-phrase: nothing there's any point in worrying about,” Liam says, more firmly this time.

 

"Should I be concerned about staying here?" Zayn asks.

 

"No,” Liam says at once. He and Eleanor have made very sure of that. If there were a credible reason to move him to a hotel, he would do it in a heartbeat, but he knows that Zayn will feel safer in his own home and for now Liam believes they can hold down the fort here. “You've got round-the-clock guards outside now, and officers doing patrols. And we'd like it very much if, until this is over, you'd let an officer drive you to and from work. Every day, not just at the trial."

 

Zayn takes a deep breath. He hasn't had a case quite this high profile before, Liam knows. This is all fairly new.

 

"Okay," he says. "That's fine. Is it possible for me to get a rota of which officers will be outside my house and driving me to work?"

 

"Oh, absolutely." Liam doesn't mention that he's already decided that he'll be the one picking up Zayn at home and work each day. "I'll be picking you up tomorrow morning and I'll have it then for you, along with pictures so you'll know what they look like. You'll also be given a colour of the day. I don't want you opening a door for anyone if they don't know the colour. I'll be the one choosing the colour every day, so if anyone tells you it's been changed, you'll know they're lying."

 

Zayn’s shoulders have crept up, tense, since the beginning of this conversation, but he doesn’t mention whatever anxiety he must be feeling. "Um... okay. I - thanks. For being so proactive on this."

 

Liam nods. "Well, you're prosecuting this guy. The chief's made your safety the top priority."

 

"I know that. But I also know that you're the one making sure this is airtight."

 

"I don't trust anyone else enough. Not with you."

 

Zayn, mostly subconsciously, curls his right hand over his left, so accustomed to the smooth white gold of his wedding ring that he barely feels it but knows it's there. "I wanted to tell you that I've made detailed notes about everything to do with the case, I've made copies of everything - I've got a whole file on the case in the safe upstairs. In case... someone needs it, at some point."

 

"No one will need it." The words immediately come from Liam's lips and there's a definite edge to them, brought on by the thought that there could be a reason Zayn wouldn't finish the case and from the sight of Zayn's hands, knowing what he was doing. With an effort, he softens again. "Thank you, but we won't need it."

 

Zayn doesn't say anything, because he knows that there are no guarantees like that. Ultimately, he just responds: "I just wanted someone to know it was there. In case."

 

"Okay." Liam takes a moment, hating the fact that this is where they are, the two of them. In the home they share, acting like no more than colleagues. "I'm going to ask you to please let us know when and if you have plans so someone can drive you. It would safest for you to just stay home but..."

 

"Yes, I will." Zayn knows that when it comes to things like this, to safety precautions, following Liam's lead is critical. Liam doesn’t have any doubt that he’ll do as promised. "I have a lot of work to do so I don't have any plans to go out in the next little while, but... if I do, I'll let you know."

 

"If..." Liam falters but then continues. "If you'd rather call Eleanor, that's fine too.”

 

"No. I mean - I'll call her if I can't reach you, of course. And she and I speak anyway, on a friendly basis. But I’d rather call you.”

 

When Liam leaves the house a few minutes later, raising a hand in a curt wave to the uniforms sitting in the cruiser parked at the curb, he knows Zayn is watching from the window. He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t like the way Zayn thanked him on his way out, like Liam came by on a courtesy call, and he doesn’t like the idea of leaving him behind, regardless of the precautions they put in place.

 

He can’t help it; at the end of the block, he turns. The cruiser is still there, as promised. The curtains in the living room window are closed.

 

-

 

Zayn's anxiety has been mounting since he woke up this morning, and it's come to a head in the twenty minutes or so since they left the DA's office. Rush hour traffic in the city is always a headache, but today Zayn just wants to get there, and get inside, so he can stop worrying, gazing into the cars that inched along next to theirs on the motorway - being suspicious of strangers.

 

When they reach the courthouse, he listens carefully to Liam's and Eleanor's instructions, and, heart racing but face carefully schooled into blankness - _show no fear_ \- he gets out of the car. Liam has opened the door for him, and his hand is on the small of Zayn’s back; Zayn barely notices.

 

They have been able to park directly in front of the courthouse, so there is only maybe fifty feet between them and the door. Zayn tries not to look around, but he can sense the police presence, in cars and buildings nearby, watching.

 

They’re only a few steps from the car when Zayn feels rather than sees or hears a sudden shift in atmosphere. The shot that rings out sounds like it comes from far away, at the same time as it’s the only noise in the world – Zayn flinches so hard that he knows it will hurt tomorrow, the movement etched into unready muscles. And now, whatever instructions Liam had drilled into him are temporarily rendered alien and unknowable, as chaos erupts around them.

 

It turns out that Zayn's failure to react makes no difference, because Liam is fast and smart enough for the both of them. Before Zayn knows it, he's being pushed backward toward the protective metal of the car (somehow, Liam knows the shots came from behind them; his instincts have always been so much better than Zayn’s); next, he’s hunched down, Liam's body over him, and he can hear shouting and the crack of more bullets, although whether they are coming from police guns or from the original shooter, he couldn't say.

Because Liam is wearing Kevlar but his head is unprotected, Zayn pulls it down, covers the back of it with both of his hands until the bullets subside. What little protection he can offer is better than nothing.

They are very still for what feels like an hour but is likely less than a minute. Zayn can tell that Liam is listening, not shocked into non-movement like Zayn is.

The part of him that makes him a good cop seems to be able to make sense of it; he’ll tell Zayn later that after the first few pops, the rounds being shot are clearly return fire from his fellow officers. The shots are closer and more familiar (whoever shot at them had to have been using a rifle, that part of his brain tells him), the sound of handguns identical to that on his hip, still holstered.

Then, as the explosive bangs slow and stop, Zayn hears nearly the worst possible words: " _Officer down! Officer down!_ "

Liam leans up over Zayn, leaves that safe circle of his arms. "You're okay. You're okay, love." He's asking, technically, but it comes out as statements.

 

"I'm okay," Zayn agrees, resisting the urge to pull Liam back down, to insist that it's not safe yet (maybe it won't feel safe for a long time). "Are you? You're okay?"

 

"Yes, yes..." Liam brushes back Zayn's hair with one hand, looks him over again, just to be sure. Then the voices must start to make sense in his head, filtering through his own fear that Zayn was hurt, because he turns, and Zayn starts to register the bursts of dialogue, too.

 

"...across the street, from that open window, third floor..."

 

"...bus is coming for Calder..."

 

"...Tomlinson's not even due in today, had to be looking for Malik..."

 

"You stay here," Liam is saying to Zayn. "I mean it, don’t get any ideas of sneaking inside. You stay here until it's me coming to get you or - " _Not Eleanor_   " - Green. He's the ginger yeah? The one you said at the party last year looked like a Weasley?"

 

"Yeah." Zayn quickly agrees. He is sort of peripherally aware that Eleanor is nowhere to be seen, and it makes his stomach knot up. "Go - go. I'll wait here."

 

Liam holds his gaze. "I mean it, Zayn. This isn't like when you don't hide in the bathroom closet. _You stay here_." In one quick motion, he takes Zayn's face in his hands and kisses his forehead, then he's up and turning, approaching the huddled shape on the ground, next to which a rookie kneels, putting pressure on a wound that has rendered Eleanor speechless.

 

The ambulance arrives in record time, and Eleanor utters a soft cry when they lift her onto the stretcher, fingers spasming in Liam's hand before they bundle her into the ambulance and Liam has to let go.

Zayn keeps his word the whole time; he waits by the car, having moved only enough to send a text through to the DA's office: _Situation in front of the courthouse. I'm fine. Will be in soon._

 

Liam returns to Zayn's side, along with Green. "We're going to get you in," he tells him. "We've got no reason to think that there's another shooter, but we're going to proceed with caution. Green is up first, you're right behind him. I'm behind you, close. We move quickly, but don't run."

 

Zayn listens attentively, and then he quickly introduces himself to Green before they begin the forty-five second walk to the front doors of the courthouse. There are so many uniforms milling around now, and the shock is starting to set in properly, so Zayn isn't even really frightened. Once they make it through the doors and confirm with the officers inside that the building is an all-clear, Green leaves Liam and Zayn to their own devices.

 

Liam thanks Green, then takes Zayn around the corner, away from the doors and windows but not in the sightline of everyone else.

 

"Look at me, babe," he says softly.

 

There's so much concern in Liam's voice that it makes Zayn's chest constrict a little. He knows it worries Liam when he gets quiet like this. He thinks he's fine, he _wants_ to be fine, but the fact that he's very nearly emotional suggests that he has some calming down to do. "I'm okay," he promises again, meeting Liam's eyes.

 

Liam holds Zayn's gaze, and Zayn can tell he’s taking in the size of his pupils, listening to the sound of his breathing. "I want you to get looked at. Please don't argue. I'm not saying you have to go to the hospital, but there are other ambulances on the way, there always are. I want you to get looked at, okay? You stay in here and I'll wait outside until they get here, send one in."

 

"Alright," Zayn agrees, reaching up to push an errant strand of hair back out of his face with a hand that trembles slightly. Recalling the text he'd received back from the DA's office, he adds, "And then I need to go in there. They're postponing the trial."

 

Eyes tracking each movement Zayn makes, Liam reaches up and takes his hand when it trembles. "Okay... yeah, that makes sense. But you don't leave this building without me, you got that? I don't care if you have to sit and read a book for four hours. You don't leave unless I'm with you."

 

Zayn lets Liam take his hand, but he makes no other movement to get closer to him. "Don't worry," he says, wishing the humour didn't sound so dark, and so hollow. "I don't think I'll be in the mood to go anywhere alone. You should go and see Eleanor."

 

"I'm going. And I'll be there for a while, that's why I'm telling you - no matter what, Zayn, I mean it. Do not go with anyone who isn't me." Liam takes just another second to look at Zayn, then squeezes his hand. "I'll send in an EMT, then I'll be in touch while I'm at the hospital." He pauses, but only for a breath. " _I love you_."

 

Zayn reaches up to cradle the back of Liam's head for just a moment, an echo of the gesture he made outside to keep Liam safe. "I know," he says. "I love you, too. Please let me know how she is. And please, please be very careful."

 

"I'll be careful," he promises before he heads for the door, not allowing himself to look back.

 

Zayn has a very strong urge to call out, to ask Liam to wait so that Zayn can hug him and make sure with his hands that Liam is okay. But he doesn't. He lets him go.


	7. But I Hope That It Gets Better As We Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, you can look to [1D_1Shots](http://archiveofourown.org/users/1D_1Shots/works) for some big-time Liam inspiration in this chapter. It's not over-exaggerating to say that it couldn't have been written without her.

By the time the doctor comes to tell him that he can see Eleanor, Liam has washed her blood from his hands, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt that will be permanently stained red. He's had two cups of coffee and exchanged a few texts with Zayn as they update each other on their situations. He rises when the doctor comes into the waiting room, listens, and then follows to where her room is.

 

As he pushes the door open, he puts a smile on his face when he sees she’s awake. "Couldn't stand me being the only one with a scar, yeah?"

 

"Well, you wouldn't shut up about it... now we both have something to whinge about." Eleanor's words are a little slurred, but she doesn't look like she's in any pain.

 

Liam's smile becomes a little less forced as he walks to her bed and takes her hand. "Not having been recently shot didn’t stop you from whinging before. You're going to be okay, though. Zayn sends his love. And his thanks."

 

Eleanor curls her fingers around his. "Tell him I'm sorry I bled on his suit.”

 

"It'll just give him an excuse to buy a new one. And hey, no apology to me? I always knew you liked him better."

 

"I do like him better. He's got much nicer hair. The trial going ahead or did it get postponed?"

 

Liam squeezes her hand gently. "The trial’s postponed. But... they got Horan. He wasn't the shooter, but they picked him up for something unrelated."

 

Eleanor's brow knits when he mentions Niall. "That's... doesn't that seem odd to you?"

 

"Honestly..." Liam licks his lips. "I'm not sure what to think about it. I wasn't in on the conversations, but maybe they're just... he knows Louis, of course. I - I can't read this yet. And I wanted to be here when you woke up, so I didn't stick around for info."

 

"It makes me nervous,” Eleanor tells him. “Him being in custody, when he’s as close as he is to – all this. Makes me wonder if someone else knows something we don’t. And maybe this is the drugs, but... didn't you tell me that Horan was with Styles? The last time you saw him?"

 

" _Shit_." Liam runs his free hand down over his face. "He was. No one mentioned Styles, though, so he must not have been there. Far as I know, Louis doesn't know they picked up Horan. Yet. Shit'll really hit the fan when he does, I'd bet. I don’t know if he was protecting Styles, or what his role was, but… it wouldn’t be the first time, if that’s the case.”

 

Eleanor takes a moment to pick through her thoughts; they seem to be wandering lazily in more than one direction, and she has to herd them back toward coherence. "I think... you should talk to Horan. Something seems... off. We're looking for Horan for a couple of years and suddenly he turns up right in the middle of this thing with Styles and Tomlinson?"

 

"And again, it wouldn't be the first time he showed up out of the blue to help them..." Liam thinks it over, nodding more to himself than to her. "I'll talk to him tomorrow," he tells her. "Won't be able to get in today, and I want to hear what the arresting officers have to say first."

 

"Alright." Eleanor seems satisfied with that. There's something else niggling at the corner of her mind, but it doesn't seem worth trying to chase it down just now. "You're okay, yeah? Zayn's okay? Everybody in uniform okay?"

 

"We're all okay, love. Don't worry about anything other than getting better." His smile grows. "As your superior - which I definitely am - that's an order. I'll take care of the work, pop in to check on you and pick your brain, yeah?"

 

"We're going to fight about who's whose superior once I'm feeling better," Eleanor warns. "Please do come and pick my brain. I'm going to be so bored."

 

"Well, everyone knows that you're the brains of our duo anyway. I'm just the brawn. And the looks. So I'll _need_ your input. Especially since...” His smile fades. “Since we all know I'm a bit too close to this case. You'll see things I might miss."

 

He pulls over a chair to sit closer to the bed. "If you make me a list, I'll bring you stuff from home too. And I'll take care of the place for you, until you're home again."

 

"You're a good cop, Liam," Eleanor promises him. "Even if you are too close to this." She watches him pull up a chair, and seems to relax slightly when she realizes that he'll be staying for a bit. "I had a travel bag in my bathroom at home, in the bottom drawer... it's got a comb and a toothbrush and everything in it. If you could bring me that, that'd be brilliant. And a shirt without blood on it, for when I get out, and some track pants. Underwear. Um. Oh - my iPod. I just put a load of audio books on it."

 

Liam nods along, committing what she's asking for to memory. "I'll bring it all first thing tomorrow. Should I pick you up some trashy tabloids too? To keep you entertained? And I'll check with your doctors when you're able to eat more, bring you in food that doesn't taste like cardboard."

 

Eleanor groans. "Please bring me a Nando's as soon as possible."

 

"As soon as the doctors say I can. I'll bring your phone charger too; make sure you call your folks. I talked to your mum, didn't want her to hear on the news, you know?"

 

"Ah, thanks, love. That means I can put off calling her until tomorrow, when I'm less... all over the place. I'm..." she yawns, and it breaks up her sentence. "I'm gonna have a nap, I think. Sorry to be a poor host."

Liam squeezes her hand, stands up. "You need to rest, and I've got a husband to get home from the courthouse. You sleep. I'll find out all I can about today, about Horan. And I'll be back in the morning with all of your unmentionables, okay?"

 

"Yes, please." Eleanor watches him. "Zayn still mad at you?"

 

Liam nods. "He is."

 

"Stay at mine as long as you want, then, yeah?"

 

Liam gives her a smile that's sadder than the one he wore earlier. "As long as I want or as long as I have to? Nah, no... it's fine. Thank you. I really appreciate it."

 

"Well, face it... who's going to be down to marathon Top Gear with you? Not Zayn. Just sayin'. We could be platonic life partners, Payno."

"Maybe while you're in here, I'll move you into a two-bedroom. Your couch is shit, and if we're going to be life partners, I need a proper bed."

 

Eleanor waves a hand. "Sleep in my bed until I get home. No sense sleeping on that rubbish couch while a perfectly good bed goes unused."

 

"Yeah, alright. Thanks, love. I'll wash the sheets before you're home, don't worry."

 

"You'd best. And while you're at it, clean the rest of the flat. Wash the dishes. Scope out my dirty laundry situation but by no means get too close if it looks too dangerous."

 

"Okay. Yeah, I can do that too. Get you some groceries before you come home."

 

"I was kidding. But if you'd like to tidy up a bit, I won't stop you." Eleanor reaches out a hand, fist loosely closed, for a fist bump. "Love you."

 

"It's the least I can do, since you're letting your pathetic partner crash with you after his husband gives him the boot." Liam half-smiles, bumps her fist. Then, though she might yell, he leans down to kiss her forehead. "I love you. It's a damn good thing you're going to be alright."

 

Eleanor scrunches up her face when he kisses her forehead. "I'm on your side. If there's anything I can do to help with... Zayn or anything else, let me know. Now get going before he decides to go on a wee wander on his own."

 

"Thanks. I - yeah, thanks. Maybe when you're out, I'll pick your brain for help with something other than the case. I'll see you in the morning; go easy on the nurses." Liam grins and gives her a salute then makes his way to the lift, already pulling out his phone, texting Zayn to let him know he's on his way.

 

-

 

Liam is a little later getting back to the courthouse than he'd hoped, but he wasn't willing to leave Eleanor until she was resting again. The drive back to his husband takes far longer than he ever remembers it taking before, and when he finally goes through the door and hunts down Zayn, he feels as though they've been apart for weeks, not hours.

 

As it turns out, Zayn is sitting not too far from the main doors, hands clasped between his knees, mind clearly somewhere else than the bench he’s sitting on.

Liam drops down onto the bench next to Zayn, close but not too close. God, he hates this fight.

"How are you holding up, _jaan_?"

 

Zayn looks over at him, almost as though he hadn't noticed Liam until he sat down. "Um. Okay."

 

"Yeah? Okay?" Liam keeps his voice soft, even. "When did you last eat, love? How long have you been sitting out here alone?"

 

Zayn shakes his head. "I wasn't hungry this morning when we left for court." _Because the anxiety was eating a hole through me,_ he doesn't add. Liam will guess, and correctly, that Zayn hasn't eaten all day. "I’ve just been sitting here - a couple of hours. I was on the phone for a bit with the office."

 

"Okay. Listen, we'll get you home first, okay? You can shower and change and I'll run back out and get you dinner, bring it back. Then we'll go over some security things before I go. How's that?"

 

Zayn looks down at his suit, as though he'd forgotten that there was a trail of blood across the front of it. "I have some... leftovers in the freezer. Um, that soup I made a couple of weeks ago. I'd rather... if you could heat that up while I'm in the shower. And I have bread. I'd rather that than you... going out again."

 

Liam nods. "Whatever you want, babe. That'll be the plan. C'mon, then. Let's get you home." He stands and offers Zayn his hand, not in a request to hold it, but simply to help him up.

 

Zayn accepts and climbs to his feet, and then, because this day has been long and he doesn't have the energy to stay physically distant from Liam, he keeps hold of his hand as they make their way out to the car.

 

Those precious few seconds as they walk to the car are a turning point in the day. Liam knows they both needed to climb down the steps in front of the courthouse without running in fear or hearing gunfire. And even that slight physical contact with the person he trusts most in the world calms some of the chaos in his head.

 

Once Zayn is in the car, sitting with his hands clasped on his lap, Liam shuts his door and heads around the front of the car to get in as well.

 

“How’s El?” Zayn asks.

"She's alright. Was cracking jokes by the time I left. And she's made me a list of what to bring her, bossy as ever." He hears the emotion in his own voice, the first waver in it all day, now that he's let his guard down just a little.

 

Zayn reaches over and squeezes his knee. "You were very brave today. I know you always are, but I know how hard it must've been to know something had happened to El and not being able to do anything about it."

 

"I'm good. I'm fine." Liam's voice is stronger again now, steady. "It's not really about being brave. Training kicks in, you know? And she's going to be good as new in a few weeks. Probably better because she'll get extra attention when she's back."

 

"I'm very relieved that she's going to be okay.” Zayn looks away from him, out the window. “Today could've been... a lot worse."

 

"You're right. I'm glad we tripled up your security. It's bad enough that El got hurt. If it had been... well, like you said, it could have been worse. You got checked out?"

 

"Uh - yeah.” Zayn shakes his head a little. “The EMT thought I should go home and rest but obviously I had some things to do today."

 

Liam nods. He wants to say Zayn should have listened but he himself wouldn't have, and at least Zayn was safe. "I heard Horan's in custody now."

 

"Is he?" Zayn looks surprised to hear that. "That seems... oddly coincidental."

 

"You didn't know?" Liam glances over as he drives. "I... thought you would."

 

"Probably on a given day, yeah, I would. But today I've been preoccupied."

 

"Yeah... yeah, of course you have. I don't have any details yet, that's next on my list." Liam pulls into the short driveway of their home, and parks. "Stay here." Leaving Zayn locked in the car, he does a quick look around the front of the house despite the cruiser already parked there, then comes back and opens Zayn's door. "All looks good, but let's move quick, yeah?"

 

Zayn nods and follows him; the journey into the house is uneventful. Once they're safely inside with the door shut behind them, Zayn turns to him. "I'm a bit torn about... you being on my security detail. I know why you want to be. And I feel safest with you. But I don't like putting both of us in a situation where we're both targets."

 

Liam is already shaking his head before Zayn finishes speaking. "I hear you, I do," he says, not wanting Zayn to think he's dismissing him. "But I'm not changing it. It's my job to be a target when the situation arises. And I'm good at my job, they didn't choose me because of who you are to me. But the fact that you _are_ my husband... there's no way I can let someone else take care of you."

 

"Yeah." Zayn looks away. "It was worth a shot." He presses his lips together momentarily. "I was really worried for you today."

 

Liam can't help but smile a little. "You didn't really think I'd remove myself, did you? And - I know you were worried. I was worried for you too. But we're both okay, and you're home, and going to shower while I heat up soup, yeah?"

 

Zayn doesn't smile. "Is it so bad that I don't want it to be my fault if something happens to you?"

 

"Hey." Liam's voice and his eyes soften. "It's not bad that you don't want me hurt. But even if I were to be - love, it wouldn't be your fault. Not even a little."

 

"It would feel like it was my fault." He reaches out and lightly puts a hand over where he knows the scar is from Liam's brush with death the last time they dealt with Niall and Louis. "You already have scar tissue on your lung. What if you get shot again?"

 

"Zayn... if I get shot again, whether it's on this case or another, the only person to blame will be whoever pulls the trigger, maybe whoever orders it. It's my job, just like you're doing yours. I'm _proud_ of you, do you get that? And I'm proud to be the one making sure you're safe."

 

Zayn looks unhappy. "I'm going to go have a shower."

 

"Zayn, wait. What - what's going on in that head of yours?"

 

"I'm just stressed out, and I've had a very long day, and I don't want anyone being a human shield if I'm being shot at, but least of all you. Okay?"

 

Liam itches to touch him. "It's my job, Zayn. I signed up for this. Just like you signed up for your job. You could hand it off to another attorney but then their life would be in danger, just as if I handed it off to another cop. I know it's hard for you, but... I don't want you wasting time over-worrying. You win this case, yeah? Focus on that."

 

"I know it's your job,” Zayn says, and his unhappiness has taken a darker turn, toward bitterness and something else. “But that doesn't mean I have to be fucking happy about it."

 

"Okay...” Liam takes a breath. “Okay, Zayn. You - go shower. I'll get your soup ready, okay?"

 

Zayn just looks tired as he turns and heads up the stairs. The hot water runs for a long time. When he comes back down, he's wearing one of Liam's t-shirts and an old pair of track pants.

 

Meanwhile, Liam has gotten his soup ready, set the table for one. "We don't have the shooter yet," he says, having called his captain while Zayn showered. "But if anything happens I'm sure you'll be one of the first to know. If you don’t hear any different, I'll be here at seven again tomorrow to take you to work."

 

Zayn sits down in front of his soup, but doesn't touch it. "Are you not having any?"

 

"Uh, nah. I'll grab something on my way back to El's. I have to pick up some trashy magazines to take to her tomorrow anyway."

 

Zayn doesn't nod, but he's clearly heard what Liam has said. "I'd like to go and visit her tomorrow."

 

"Can do. I'm sure she'd like that. Go after work, when I pick you up? "

 

"Yeah. That'd be nice.” There’s a beat. Zayn knows that Liam can’t stay, that if he allowed him to just because he was afraid and not because he’d forgiven him, it wouldn’t be right. “Um... be safe, yeah?"

 

"I promise." Liam takes a couple of steps backwards towards the doorway. "Love you, babe. You did great today."

 

Zayn's still looking down at his soup. "Thanks. Love you, too."

 

Liam lingers for only a second longer before turning to go. He makes sure the door is locked securely then does a perimeter check of the house before finally deciding that Zayn is as safe as he can be, home alone.

 

By the time he gets back to Eleanor’s empty flat, he’s feeling the emotional weight of the entire day weighing on his joints, making him too weary to do much more than sit down on the edge of the couch. If Zayn had died today, he thinks, he’d have died still mad at Liam.

 

It’s too much to even imagine, but he imagines it anyway.

 

-

 

It had taken a little more work on Liam’s part than he'd expected the following morning to get permission to talk to Horan, but Liam's here now and he's already decided he fully understands what it is that happened to lead to Horan being brought in – the real reason, not the reason on the books.

 

He goes into the interrogation room, telling the guard that he won't be needed, making sure that the speakers he knows are outside of the room are turned off. He's not an attorney but for Horan's sake and his own he'd rather keep this conversation private. Pulling out a chair and sitting down opposite Niall, whose hands are chained on the table in front of him, he takes in the other man's appearance. "Fancy meeting you here."

 

Niall recognizes Liam at once, and his approval of his visitor – wary, but there – is evident. "Detective Payne. It is nearly always a pleasure."

 

"I wish I could say the same. Though I doubt I'll be leaving here with another hole in my chest this time."

 

Niall spreads his hands as best he can with the cuffs on; the chains rattle quietly. "Didn't you get the fruit basket I sent? Completely an accident, mate. From what I hear, obviously."

 

Liam raises one eyebrow but he lets it drop. "I have to admit, when I heard you were in here, I was a little bit... surprised. It was my understanding that you have a tendency to steer clear of law enforcement."

 

"Oh, aye. That's what happens when someone calls in an 'anonymous tip'." Niall's eyes are very blue and very steady, fixed on Liam. "Can you guess who wants me out of the way?"

 

Looking over at Horan, Liam has to chuckle a little. "Oh, I'd imagine there are a few people who might fit the bill. But given the current situation, I'd guess it's a mutual enemy of a friend of yours, yeah?"

 

Niall shrugs. "I mean. We can't say for sure, but it seems more than likely. Listen." He leans forward a little. "I'm going to tell you something, and you should do something with this information: I think I've been taken off the street because I was protecting someone valuable to you and a – friend of yours. I think that whoever called in the anonymous tip knew that I was protecting this person. And they wanted me out of the way.”

 

Liam does his best to keep his expression unchanged, but he blinks, flinches ever so slightly. "Assuming you're right - and this is just hypothetical chatting - where would one look if he were looking for this person you’re referencing?”

 

Niall sees the flinch, and knows he's gotten in. "You could check the tenements on Lorne Street. Second one from the end by the shop. If he's not there... I'm sure I don't have to put it together for you. But I dunno how willing our mutual friend is going to be, to testify."

 

"He knows what he has to do." Liam speaks quickly and with a force the makes clear he's trying to convince himself as much as Niall. "Second one from the end on Lorne. And that's it? That's the only place to look before we... worry?"

 

"I told him not to leave. He knows better than to go for a wander."

 

"Does he? Are you absolutely sure about that?"

 

"I am. If he's not there, it won't be because he left of his own accord."

 

"Does he know you're in here? Because he took off looking for Louis before, if you recall."

 

"He might. He watches the news. But he and I have talked about what he's to do if he hears I'm in jail, and the protocol is: Sit tight."

 

"Sit tight until what, exactly?"

 

Niall cocks his head. “I don’t know how much detail you’re expecting me to go into with you.”

 

"He'd better be there." Liam leans forward, forearms on the table between them. "He'd better be right where you say he is. I can't imagine Louis will be much pleased with you if he's not. And neither will I."

 

"Mate, you can't blame me for the fact that I'm sitting right here." Niall watches Liam, unfazed by his threat. "And I think you should consider sending _me_ a fruit basket for my part in keeping safe your end of the bargain."

 

"Because of you, I could have died. I didn't pick you up in relation to that. So that _was_ your fruit basket. And I'm telling you - " Liam's gaze is intense as he looks across the table at Niall. His eyes flick once, quickly at the door. " - that I will look into it, but as someone paid to uphold the law, if I find him, I won't be checking him into a hotel."

 

Niall shrugs. "Not up to me what you do with him."

 

Liam leans back in his chair again. "What exactly are they charging you with? Anything new?"

 

"Nah." Niall doesn't seem worried as he leans back too, lightly drumming his fingers against the table. "Nothing that's going to hold up in court, anyway. I know a lawyer or two."

 

"You don't say." Liam pushes his chair away from the table and stands. "I'll see what I can do about our friend. If you decide you have something else I need to know, I can come back."

 

"Solid. Hey, Detective... I really do regret the whole shooting thing. Honestly."

 

"Yeah..." Liam relents a little. "Yeah, okay. Thanks. And thanks for the info, today."

 

"Ah, don't mention it. I've a fondness for the lad. I hope he's there when you get there."

 

"Yeah. Me too." Liam heads out of the interrogation room without saying goodbye; his mind is already spinning with the very, very bad things that could happen if Harry is missing and Louis finds out.


	8. Who'd Want to Live and Die in This Mess We Made?

The house second from the end on Lorne looks just like every other house in the row, which, Liam assumes, is why it was chosen to be a safe house. He parks the unmarked vehicle two blocks down and fights the urge to tuck his hands into his pockets as he approaches, to make himself look smaller and more unremarkable than he is. He doesn’t want to have his hands caught, if he needs them.

 

From the road, nothing seems amiss. The curtains are drawn, and there is a car parked outside. There are dead leaves gathered on the hood, some of them collected under the wiper blades; Liam doubts it’s been driven recently.

 

He opens the gate and walks up the front path, projecting a calm he doesn’t feel. Usually he is not this ill at ease, going about his job. Perhaps it is because so much hangs on this, or because Eleanor is not at his back, or because the neighbourhood is completely silent except for the eerie grinding-metal sound of a train passing by, down the end of the close. Regardless, he does not like it.

 

Liam considers knocking, but if he is to be confronted with anyone but Harry, he doesn’t want to give up the element of surprise. He tests the knob, just to check, and to his surprise – and unease – it turns effortlessly.

 

The door opens onto an empty front hall. All of the doors leading off of it are closed. Liam gently tries the knob on each one, but they are all locked. The only way forward, beckoning, seems to be up the stairs directly ahead, at the top of which a light flickers, as though a curtain blows back and forth in front of an unseen window.

 

Liam reaches for his gun and silently makes his way forward, up the stairs, ear cocked for any sign of life above. When he reaches the landing, he feels a prickling on the back of his neck and glances back over his shoulder. Nothing has changed in the pattern of shadows at the base of the stairs. Nevertheless, he picks up his pace, reaching the top of the stairs in half the time it took him to climb the first flight.

 

The drapes are mostly closed over a large window that overlooks the street. Liam turns his back to it, taking care to check each room he passes, but they are all empty and dark. At the end of the hall, he reaches a door that sits slightly ajar. Beyond, there is an odd whistling sound, like wind caught in a small space.

 

Liam reaches out and prods the door open, weapon raised.

 

The first thing he sees is an overturned chair, like something out of the movies; placed there just so, like it wasn’t overturned in the heat of a struggle.

 

Liam does a quick sweep of the room, but it is readily apparent that it is empty. The wind continues to be pulled mournfully through a small hole in the window, surrounded by a spider-web of cracks; when Liam approaches, he can see a faint smear of blood on the glass.

 

A flickering in the corner of his eye catches his attention, and he spies a sheet of paper held down by the corner of a heavy lamp, rustling in the wind.

 

It is a newspaper clipping, he realizes as he draws closer. The headline dates from Harry and Louis’ escape from prison together. Their mugshots are grim and grainy in black and white.

 

Liam is careful to place the clipping into a plastic bag before he does a cursory search of the rest of the house. He tucks his gun back out of sight before he leaves, drawing the front door closed behind him and starting off toward his car, careful to keep his pace brisk but not suspicious.

 

For a man behind bars, John Rogers is remarkably capable of staying one step ahead. Liam feels like a switch has just been flipped and that now he is on a deadline that had previously only been a possibility. He doesn't like the jitter of panic it creates in the pit of his stomach, any more than he likes the way the houses seem to watch him as he turns his car around in an empty driveway and makes for the motorway.

 

He wishes he could talk to Zayn.

 

-

 

When Liam picks his husband up from work, he is very nearly too distracted to notice the way Zayn slams the car door a little bit harder than necessary. Since he discovered Harry’s absence, he has been trying to gather as much intel as he can on John Rogers – aliases, hideaways, front businesses, anything that may give him a clue as to where Harry might be now.

 

He had also been hoping, perhaps naively, that someone from John Rogers’ camp might try to contact him. It wouldn’t be much, but it would be more of a start than he has now.

 

He only notices Zayn’s mood when the latter nearly wrenches the seatbelt out of its holder when he goes to put it on (the putting on of the seatbelt is something that Zayn never used to do, before Liam gave him so many safety lectures that he simply started doing it to shut him up, and eventually it became a habit).

 

“Zayn?” he asks, almost hesitantly. It’s not that Zayn doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve usually – he very much does – but since they’re already not getting on, Liam is not sure Zayn will appreciate an interrogation as to his mood.

 

It turns out that it isn’t that complicated.

 

“Where exactly is Harry Styles?”

 

Liam freezes.

 

Zayn makes an expression that Liam doesn’t like at all, like a smile but with no humour in it. “Drive. We’re going to see Eleanor.”

 

Liam obliges him and pulls away from the curb, but his head is reeling too much to suss out exactly what Zayn’s planning.

 

When they reach the hospital, Liam turns to Zayn. “Can we please – before we go in there, can you tell me what’s happening?”

 

Zayn is already getting out of the car. “That’s funny, that was the question I was going to ask you.”

 

Liam trails him to the elevator, and they make their way up to Eleanor’s floor. She is sitting up when they arrive, and she looks cheered to see them until she registers Zayn’s expression.

 

“You look murderous,” she comments. Not being married to Zayn, she can get away with statements that would make Liam fear for his life, were he to utter them.

 

Zayn shuts the door behind them, and silence descends on the room. Liam is sitting, perched on the edge of the chair next to Eleanor’s bed. Zayn surveys the two of them like they are children who have been up to no good at school.

 

Once upon a time, the silence might have gone on so long that it made Liam uncomfortable. Now, though, he knows Zayn too well – and knows that he’ll be expected to speak first.

 

“Harry’s missing,” he begins.

 

“Yes.” Zayn watches him.

 

“He’s missing?” Eleanor echoes, glancing from one to the other. “What’s going on?”

 

“I think we’ll need Liam to fill in some of the gaps for us,” Zayn says.

 

“I talked to Niall Horan this morning,” Liam says, after a half-beat of hesitation during which he realizes that they are now both watching him. “He, um. Seemed fairly convinced that someone had taken him off of the street so that they could get to Harry.”

 

“Like we talked about,” Eleanor puts in, almost absently, the wheels obviously turning.

 

“Yeah. And – I went to the safe house, where he told me I would find Harry. He wasn’t there. There were signs of a struggle, and I found this.” Liam leans to one side and fishes around his pocket for a moment before he finds the newspaper article tucked neatly into a plastic evidence bag and passes it to Eleanor. She glances at it before handing it to Zayn.

 

“So this is the other half of the message.” Zayn pores over the article for a long moment, but his brow knits as he doesn’t seem to find what he is looking for.

 

“Sorry?” Liam asks, breaking out of a half-second’s stunned silence. “What? The other half?”

 

“I got a call today, via the office phone.” Zayn tucks the article away, into his jacket. “The person asked for me, but when I picked up, they told me to pass a message onto you.”

 

Liam and Eleanor exchange glances.

 

“He said that careless talk costs lives. I asked what he meant, and he said that you’d know, once you found the other half of the message.” Zayn waits once he’s finished speaking, to let that sink in.

 

Eleanor blinks. “Well, fuck.”

 

“Yeah. Fuck.” Zayn looks from one to the other. “Someone’s got Harry Styles, because they know he matters to Louis Tomlinson. And thanks to you two, and the deal you’ve made, Tomlinson will only testify if he knows that Styles is safe. Which is no longer a promise that we can make.”

 

“Then we have to get him back,” Liam says, knowing that he is stating the obvious but unable not to blurt it out.

 

“We do if we don’t want the most pivotal piece of evidence in my case against John Rogers to fall through,” Zayn says grimly. “I wish – I really wish that the two of you hadn’t made this deal. I wish that you’d talked to me, first.”

 

“Well, that’s all well and good,” Eleanor says, with a hint of dryness and more than a little bit of a challenge, “but if we hadn’t made that deal, you’d not have any testimony to work with.”

 

“Okay,” Liam cuts in, before Zayn can articulate that lethal expression he’s wearing, “We need to figure out where Harry is. And we need to hope that Louis doesn’t already know that he’s gone.”

 

“He may,” Eleanor realizes. “I’ve always thought that the prison grape vine was strange like that. Someone who knows someone who knows John Rogers may have already told him. In fact, I’d count on it, if they want him not to testify.”

 

“Yes, I doubt they’d trust us to admit to Louis that our leverage against him is gone.” Zayn does not sound sardonic so much as like he has already considered all of these things and he’s impatient to progress to the next stage of the discussion. “We need Harry Styles.”

 

“I’ve been doing some legwork, trying to figure out where he could be,” admits Liam. “Ever since I went to the safe house earlier, I’ve been trying to sort it out, but it would take me too long to search all of the possibilities myself.”

 

“You should have told me about it when it happened,” Zayn says. “We could have worked on it together.”

 

“I know.” Liam looks a little ashamed as he glances up at him. “You were already so against the deal to begin with that I didn’t want – I just thought it would be better, if I could get everything squared away on my own.”

 

“Don’t.” Zayn meets his gaze. “Okay? Liam? Please don’t. Even when I’m upset with you, I’m still – I still want to help. And this is about more than just you and me.”

 

Eleanor pipes in, for which Liam is grateful. “It’s too late for that now,” she says firmly. “We need to narrow down where Harry could be.”

 

“Yeah, we do.” Zayn glances toward the window, where already the daylight is beginning to fade. “Even though it means he’ll have to be arrested when we find him, it’s better to have him alive and to know where he is than – the alternative.”

 

“I don’t have to arrest him if it’s just me who tracks him down,” Liam points out. Despite what he had told Niall this morning, he is hesitant to violate the terms of his deal with Louis – and not just because it puts the possibility of Louis testifying in jeopardy. “If you can find a way to get Horan back on the street, where he can keep an eye on Harry, then I can – ”

 

“You can’t go and get him without backup, Liam.” Eleanor shakes her head. “Even if they aren’t expecting something like that, there are too many risks. It’s not worth getting yourself killed over.”

 

“I don’t plan on getting myself killed,” Liam says impatiently. “But it’s my fault we’re in this mess, so I should at least be the one who does the recon, and figures out what our next move has to be.”

 

“ _Just_ recon,” Zayn says, and his voice brooks no argument.

 

“Just recon, fine,” Liam repeats, and he hates the way Zayn just accepts that dismissive, half-annoyed tone in his voice, like this has become their new normal. “But that still doesn’t change the fact that we don’t know where to start.”

 

“I might have an informant who can help,” Eleanor tells them. “I don’t know how much she knows, or even how much she’ll be willing to tell you, based on the – atmosphere out there, right now, but it’s worth a try.”

 

Liam nods. “Alright. Tell me anything I need to know. And text me the name, yeah? So I have it. Best not to waste any time.”

 

Zayn watches him the whole time he’s getting the rundown from Eleanor, and Liam tries very carefully not to read anything into his expression – or to give anything away in his own.


End file.
